I am a refugee,
I am a Hawo i am called H here it’s easier
I am familiar with chips and fish
Different dirt, different air, a different life
I have heard of you Somalia,
Images inked by parents
The last image was that you had been left to hyenas,
Hunting in packs they hounded you Somalia and we left
On Mondays to Friday I remind myself of a Jane,
On the weekend I may curl up Somalia
Try to suppress the voices of Hawo,
Which come to the fore with ever more intensity recently
Like a bad dream I’m replayed images of children, women and collarbones
The crevices tell a story of’ a journey long and arduous
under an unrelenting sun
I may watch you on TV but i still understand the language of my grandfathers
To piece together a story using the flogging of the sun, dirt
Children, women and collarbones
It rains here Somalia in what seems to be a cruel twist of irony,
More than we deserve,
I look up and thank the one who created you and me
Pray he may send the heavy clouds upon you,
To fill those collarbones I had seen; create puddles of life.
My skin realises we have a deeper tapestry of history,
It recognises the fact out grandparents may have played as youngsters,
Your dad may have served my mother in one of the bustling cafes in Mogadishu once upon a time,
We held hands and hearts,
I live in London
But my heart is with you each beat praying to bring the earth back to life again
Hawo Sayyid
Copyright © 2011
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