Waiting for Paradise

Waiting for Paradise

“Isn’t it here?”, I ask myself day and night.

Eighty-five years ago with no food on the table, my sick mother fed us hugs for breakfast and with a kiss we went out the door to our little red one-room school.

We learn how to read, write and add.

Wars came.

That’s what they told us when the man spoke through the radio.

New battles went … came again.

Little food started showing up on the table.

We had shoes now; a new pair every year for Christmas.

Mom kept feeding us hugs for breakfast and bread for lunch.

Dad died on a sunny day.

Mom died during a storm.

I worked at a factory 10 hours a day.

I filled bullets with powder and inspected parts for tanks.

New wars came and went.

There was food on the table; … and drinks!

I got a pair of high heals and danced while people died far away.

Now, I am simply waiting for paradise.

“Isn’t it here?”, I ask myself day and night.

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2 Responses to Waiting for Paradise

  1. Ingrid says:

    Wooooow , love it quien lo escribio? Espectacular la foto

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