My son Nok

You turn your head away
“He is my son”, I say
“He was taken out of my grip”, I say
He learnt how to shoot with a gun.

He shot from village to village
enemies we all became
lapena leaves couldn’t hide us
we were handed blankets, beans and posho
internally displaced we became.

Then I heard he was dead.
“He is my son”, I mourned
“He was taken out of my grip’”

“He was my son
He was taken out of my grip”.

Link to the Italian translation


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