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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