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Who Am I to Talk?
Who am I to talk about my dead fathers?
Who am I to talk
about my dead fathers?
Who am I to talk
about those who fled their homes?
Who am I to talk
about the eyeless, legless,
faceless men who fought
for no reason at all?
Who am I to talk
about the shaken souls
cutting off cow heads
after they returned?
Who am I to talk
about the mother who
lost all hope and who
am I to talk
about the young widow
with a shovel full of rubble and
her single vision of a rising city
shivering with life?
Who am I
to talk?
In my poem, I ask myself what gives me the right to talk on behalf of people who actually experienced the WWII. The rhetorical question in the beginning of each sentence implies that trying to write a poem from their point of view is nothing but pointless; no amount of empathy can match such experience. So instead…
