Candles lit in sacred
Children playing in the streets,
People loaded onto cattle cars,
A flicker of candlelight-
my mother, my father,
my eighteen-year-old sister
Children playing in the streets
I close my eyes, but still
people with blank faces,
piles of empty suitcases,
The candle dies out
But my mind never loses sight
of the tragic faces of
who used to play in the streets,
nor the flaming star of
on my heart.
This magazine is produced by the Write Place and is funded through a St. Cloud State University (St. Cloud, Minnesota) Cultural Diversity Committee allocation.
Contributors retain all rights to their work.