Learned the art of survival
from father, a commando
trained warrior, never able
to leave the battles behind
A sharp-shooter, whose
expert eye tracked our
every fault; with sniper
precision shot us down.
Innocence has no place
when the enemy resides
within; when trigger lines
are camouflaged by wall-
to-wall carpets, and young
minds, craving exploration,
are imprisoned by acts of
terror; the only conclusion
survival’s impermanence,
hostility lurking in every
shadow, caution instilled
by the omnipotent legacy
of father. Tried to reach
him in the end, touch his
humanity; his shell-shocked
glaze paused for a moment,
he focused, broke through
the fury, seemed to remember
we were his daughters – was
that compassion lighting
his expression? Take cover,
he cried, get as far away as
you can, save yourselves, I
cannot sway my path, too
committed to this private war,
there is no mercy for me – but
you, you can be saved, save
your children. I turn and run
with all the certainty that this
is life and death and embrace
the little ones, praying to lift
them out of the ashes, give
them new life, but it seems
they learned the art of survival
from the daughter of a father,
conditioned to the state of war.
Wonderful, thank you for sharing.
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Hard to do – but thanks for the encouragement.
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I know how you feel. I got my feeling hurt, and was considering just stopping this all-together. The jury is still out, but I though I would give it another try. You are brave, remember that!
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You nail the battle scene. It leaves me feeling strong.
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Thanks Ruth-Anne!
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Amazing 💛
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Thank you
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Bravo
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Thank you so much!
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Pleasure and an honour
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