|
THE CHILD SOLDIER'S MONOLOGUE |
|
|
|
 |
    |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |
THE CHILD SOLDIER'S MONOLOGUE (First prize at the NCC 2001 poetry contest) By Amparo Jaramillo-Restrepo
They condemned me to a life of wandering
Ever since I emerged dear Mother from your womb,
And the only shelter I've ever known
Was your gentle arm, your sweet embrace.
Without homeland to call my own, nobody taught me
The blessed art of sowing seeds or the joy of harvesting.
Nor have I learned the jargon of fishing, nor how to control
The waters so as to rein in their damp and slippery inhabitants
And thus deal with hunger. Nor anyone taught me
How to weave nets and blankets as my ancestor did, with the products
Of the many colored plants of my homeland,
I was not even given my share of the fruits of our trees which others
Had already taken over by the time I was born, Mother.
But on the other hand, very early, they tore from my hands (small
Clovers of five fingers) the rag- ball and replaced it with a gun.
And they forefront my throat my last syllables of baby talk
To replace them with battle cries I scarcely understood.
And they tore from my little pockets the toys of childhood
And put hand grenades there instead.
Thus, with no time or space to form friends I instead formed enemies,
And was therefore condemned to a life of running away,
Amid nightmares of death that never left me since I was turned
Into a child soldier by the same people who never taught me
How to sow or to reap, to fish or to weave, not yet to read the heavens,
Nor to laugh or play, not even to console myself in books,
For the schools were destroyed by war or else were prohibited for me, Mother.
And so it is that I am a child soldier without shelter or family
Or homeland, one whose sleep is forever disturbed
By the grating knowledge of a dreadful world.
Too young to have a past, too small and weak to envision much of a future,
I am young yes, but already somewhat aged by a mercenary spirit,
And controlled like a puppet by wicked, powerful forces, who made me
Into the Child Soldier I am, with their slogans and banners that
Don't really pertain to me, certainly before my own spirit might
Have had time to awaken.
Alone am I then, this child soldier, taught only to kill
In behalf of the ideas of others, the gods of others,
The lands of others, whose alien trees yield fruit
That I will never taste, Mother.
English Translation by Maury Tuck Stadler
|
|
Web Design by Carlos E. Restrepo
Mipoesia.com |
|||
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
