I had magic fingers.
I wrote hundreds of stories and poems
And even drew pictures to go with them.
I played the piano from sun up to sundown
Without pause and would still play
All through dinner.
I was six years old
And I had magic fingers.
I wonder where all the magic went.
I want my magic fingers back.
To his Late Mother
Mother, the crack of their whips is so harsh,
The sound of our wailing is parched.
The ground is rocky and rough
And work is too hard, too tough.
Mother we work even when it’s raining.
Worse, we are not allowed to sing.
We hardly have food to eat
And we can barely rest our tired feet.
Mother the women are raped mercilessly
Whilst the men stare helplessly.
Innocent babies born everyday
Never get to know their fathers anyway.
Mother the nights are ice cold
And you’re not here for me to hold.
I dream of home and you,
I hope you think of me too.
Mother with every dawn
And every tired yawn,
I know we’re getting closer
To meeting each other.
I’ll keep writing you letters
Till that day, Mother.