My friends used to tell
History is boring
It kind of is.
It kind of is when –
It’s not our story.
Depends on who we are.
Once people bled when wars were waged
Riots burned children alive-some not yet born
Revolutions taught to hate and love
Refugees fled from their ravaged mother-
Let my family, my children survive-All they could say-Mercy.
Then more new events to remember and feel
The old pains were too old
Some people died in wars – their families cried
Over and over again tears dry out to nothingness, OR,
Just, Just some lines, in some Dry Story-
Who knows if it’s still all truth.
Pains and love of just one man- who has been just one man
They are lost even to him, as he lives
Pains and love of Us- well depends on who is Us.
We call us Indian?
Europe’s History is not ours?
When Red Indians die, when Armenians are killed
We sleep in peace?
Stories of the Baloch, Chinese, Somalis
We call us British? Jew, Muslim, Hindu
And only that, that and that only?
We called us Humans
Or Ones of Earth
We the ones that died in Permian
Who lost all human wars
Who died and lived and loved and warred
Killed us so so many times
We were that we.
History would still be boring
We might live – with hopes to dream and act– just
Just a bit more wilder dreams.
Wilder , More Empathetic , Wiser
A History in creation, and Maybe
A History – a little less crimson.
Please check this out as well by Johnny, this reminded me of the civil war that made my grandparents refugees: