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Freedom
When I was young,
my father used to bring home a newspaper
that we read almost in the dark as if
we were committing the worst crime
in the world. I loved the idea of being
a conscious criminal. Our hearts trembling,
our eyes assaulting each word indecently.
We - accomplices of a perfect crime.
-It was freedom-
Not the freedom we could dream
we would possibly have some day.
But the freedom of those who
slept like kings and got up like fools
on April 1st, 1964.
I remember how free we all were
behind the curtains, in the dusk
when George Orwell's big brother
was sleeping or denouncing another
neighbor.
When I look back in time and
see this new generation suffering
from amnesia, I am grateful.
I know the high price we had
to pay to have our tongues back again.
So I savor this delicate word
with faith, thinking about my father
who never bent, who gave me
my first pair of wings when all we could do
was to crawl.
Karla Bardanza
This poem is a tribute to my Father.
my father used to bring home a newspaper
that we read almost in the dark as if
we were committing the worst crime
in the world. I loved the idea of being
a conscious criminal. Our hearts trembling,
our eyes assaulting each word indecently.
We - accomplices of a perfect crime.
-It was freedom-
Not the freedom we could dream
we would possibly have some day.
But the freedom of those who
slept like kings and got up like fools
on April 1st, 1964.
I remember how free we all were
behind the curtains, in the dusk
when George Orwell's big brother
was sleeping or denouncing another
neighbor.
When I look back in time and
see this new generation suffering
from amnesia, I am grateful.
I know the high price we had
to pay to have our tongues back again.
So I savor this delicate word
with faith, thinking about my father
who never bent, who gave me
my first pair of wings when all we could do
was to crawl.
Karla Bardanza
This poem is a tribute to my Father.
Published 29th Jul 2012
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