Crimson Hills....a poem by Sarah Carbin

I stand on my stoop looking out at the world that is my street.

Walking to the corner store I hear talk or protest, signs and speeches of peace.

Peace, I remember that word.

A word that my mother would tell me of. A word that I say in church every Sunday morning.

Still groggy from the previous night,

I keep walking, quiet, not making any eye contact.

I'm curious, about people,

about the world,

about why there is a North and a South when we live in the same place.

I ask my grandfather but he only answers "Mar muid breag: Because we are not them."

I ask my mother; she does not answer;

just keeps peeling potatoes for tonight's supper.

I ask my brother and sister, but they are too young to really know.

I ask my grandmother: she just smiles and calls me "Saor in aisce spoirad -- Free spirit."

That night I ask my saints.

The morning comes; it's quiet.

I'm still looking at my world.

Commotion shatters the silents.

Gun shots, yelling, why?

Why is everyone running?

Why am I still standing still?

I feel dizzy like I'm in a dream and will soon wake.

But why can't I wake up?

The streets are now alive with the sound of people and sirens.

I can't move even though people are pushing me.

The smell of rain and gun powder saturates the air.

Our once lush green land is now scarred with the loss of her people.

How can I be a free spirit with all these chains?