I am East Timorese
I am East Timorese
There is blood on the moon
there is blood on the trees
In the once peaceful gardens
the corpses pile high
blossom and branches
are tattered and torn
a bloodied hair ribbon
drifts in the breeze.
I am East Timorese.
There are guns in my street,
there are guns at my gate
Where is my husband, my father,
my mother, my brother?
Are they gone in those trucks,
herded by strangers
with guns in their hands?
Will I not ever see them again?
I am East Timorese.
My church is in ashes,
my priest is no more.

From the Bishop’s last refuge
flames reach to the sky.
Did the Bishop, too, die?
My home is on fire,
my children are crying,
we must run for our lives,
we have nowhere to go.
I am East Timorese.

In Jakarta the generals
are rubbing their hands
and political leaders
from soft leather chairs
talk, unctuous as ever
and as ever
               deceive.
I am East Timorese


© Venie Holmgren Sept 7 1999