Ghosts By by Amy 'Gavriela' Maxime Ze'eva Person

Mazdoll

We are the ghosts of the children no more. We lay in the graveyard of the home for unwed mothers, next to the church with the beautiful rose window, underneath the disturbed soil of Ireland.

Our mothers came here, sharing secrets, being quiet, toiling
and attending Mass with each other, though they never shared their true names. There was a momentary sisterhood, it seemed, and we thought we might one day live here, and be happy.

We each knew our mothers very well, and some of them talked to us every day, in their little rooms, alone. Sometimes there was anger, sometimes crying, but we were always with them, and felt close.

In our whispers to each other, underneath the grass, we've shared how each of our mothers grew austerely silent as the day of our birth
approached.

Some of us withered from all the unhappiness, and left our mothers early, and here came to rest. Others traveled the birth canal, just like any of you living, but our mothers disappeared so suddenly, we died of fright.

But we don't speak to frighten you. We call to you because you are our brethren. In each other, we have found comfort, but our ears are keen in the silent air, and we know many more of us lay, all over the earth, forgotten.

We never lived to understand what was so important to your ways that made our growth, our awareness, so brief.
And though we are now part of the trees, the light, and the air, our spirits stay sunken, unidentified.

We understand we are bastards, and we know there are the living among our kind.

You are our brethren and you can hear us in the night when you think about your own mysteries, and wonder.
Every time you speak out for the bastards, you bless another one of us with a name, another with a face. Whenever you feel isolated, you can call to us and we will hear.

Use your breath, your precious life, and change the world's ways for all of us. Know we were loved by at least one silent heart.
Be strong, and love each other, and the world will surely change.

kathy finn

omg that poem has just made me cry, it,s soo true.....kathy

MaryMagdalene

Mazdoll wrote: »

We each knew our mothers very well, and some of them talked to us every day, in their little rooms, alone. Sometimes there was anger, sometimes crying, but we were always with them, and felt close.

So true...