History of a War

A sun dappled room, draped on worn floors

A tapestry of gold lines the walls, bookshelves reaching for the spires,

A little girl sits, her back against a fire

Embers splutter, pale lights dance

Upon yellow pages of a wordless book

Her fingers trail over pages forgotten, her mouth forming words little she did know

“Look here,” she says, “It is the history of the unknown.”

“What’s there? I see no such thing.” A voice spreads like honey in her ears.

“But it is there,” she insists. “I see the worlds and I see them sing.”

“What words do they claim to bring?”

“Maybe for a while, they will let me listen,” she says with a pause. “They have strayed,

They see us here and want to be free,

They want us to know that they are afraid.”

“There is nothing to be afraid about. All there is already known. We have the light on our fingers,

The fire in our homes. There is nothing

To be afraid about.”

The little girl beckons. “Come closer, let me show you--

--A kingdom by the sea,

Swathed in blue and irony

We see the dim of light and the green of storms,

The smoke of a gun and the renegade of stars,

‘Fight for us, then you shall see,

You can be heroes for an eternity’.

“A gallant effort, for a war too bleak,” interjects the voice. “What then, can you say?”

“Our history is painted in gallant efforts,” the girl points out,

“For a war far too bleak,

Do you believe that the battle is done?

Is that all that we can seek?”

“It is done, and over,” the voice scoffs. “We all saw.”

“But the scars are angry, red, and raw,

They leave their people scattered,

The children left behind

Their language unknown and their heritage no matter.

The flags are half mast,

Their words all about the past

They fight for us but under their breath, they curse us,

They don’t know us. These yellow books don’t even let us.”

The girl shuts her book. She sees the voice in a shadow.

“I see,” says the voice. The sun dims with a sigh, the fires burn bright.

The warmth is too much, the cold seeks to fight.

The voice is a whisper, a touch sinister.

“We scorn you.”

“Why?”

“We hate you.”

“Why?”

“We do not know you.”

“Not yet, but you will.”

“Is that what history tells you?”

“I know what the history tells me,” says the girl. “The words are forgotten but the history is not.

I feel them sing

In the red of my blood.

I feel them flicker behind my eyes as they see the scorn

On the yellow of my skin,

The brown of my eyes,

They see the hate of the pink of my mouth as I speak in my tongue.

Tell me, is it something you did, or am I merely speaking lies?”

“Who is watching? Who is they?”

The girl looks up, catching the eyes of the words forgotten, unravelling before her,

“We are people unknown. The people are before us, our ancestors in our blood. They are the coals in our fire, the light in our veins,

They are the words to our soul

Of a history foretold

They tell me, ‘Do not forget, this bastardly day, do not forget what we came here to say,

Your hate only brings us together.

Our history will be known forever and ever even though we pay,

For our stories bring forth a light never known before,

Let it be known: We are here to stay.”