I’m from the land with many fields,
That stretch out for miles.
I’m from a country that’s known for its beauty,
And not the money.
I’m from that small old house down the long road,
That small old house passed down to me from my ancestors.
The small old house with miles of fields of barley, corn, and wheat.
The fields where I played hide-n-seek all day.
The fields where I would help my grandparents plant.
The fields that bloomed with fresh flowers.
The sunflowers, poppies, daisies, and chamomile colored the fields.
The vibrant colors and the breathtaking scent,
The birds chirping and no one in sight,
Made me believe I was living a dream.
But now, …… all of it is gone.
These fields of mine,
This home of mine,
All of it is down in flames.
The fields of colors,
Only show red, orange, and yellow,
All the crops burned down to ashes.
The silence is now filled with loud BOOMS!
The long road that now leads to emptiness,
Is shattered; filled with the blood of dying heroes.
I stand in front of this land,
The land where I’m from.
This land I no longer recognize.
And I ask myself,
Will this home of mine
Still be MY home?
By Christina Borsa