Dum spiro spero

Hot summers – I was digging – like my ancients were turning the land,
Having as strength that motion of heart called love.
Warm air winding my face, never time to rest,
Yet I was digging, bringing out from the ground
The sweet white potatoes, and few practical questions of life.
Never look back, past is past. I lost my track in new family advice.
You better behave and do what is asked by your man.
So, I was digging… my own withdrawal,
A sort of tricky escape for my shattered mind,
Feeding my dreams with a golden, illusional light.  

Rinsing the boiling mud, my eyes sparked from the past,
Like waters are carrying rich, strong memories of time,
Flowing their freedom, beneath the yellow summer sun,
Craft your luck with your hand. Digging the land
‘Till hot seasons burnt the skin, let alone in the wrath
While no red remained to ignite my strong strength
Scorched under my withdrawal. And one day I run.

From freezing poignant curse, holding cutaneous scars,
All over my body and mind, painfully crushing my dreams,
Witnessing how softness is dying, bleeding its fears from the heart.
Spotting the threaten of life in the jealousy’s eyes.
And so what you have been abused? That’s not a reason for a run!
You won’t be alright! They keep saying again and again.
Understand that women need to sacrifice!
Seeking no freedom! They call me stray dog,
Questioning my dignity, my ethics.
Digging narrow prejudices while preparing my withdrawal.

Yet I was turning a stand up in their command.  
What could be even worse than that?
Finding myself a stranger in my beloved tribe.
Where never I will be alright.
After all those hot summers digging the land,
Bringing out from the ground the sweet white potatoes,
Learning the hard way some practical lessons of life,
I run from my withdrawal. Like a golden butterfly.  

© Simona Prilogan