I am from Russian hats.
From caviar crepes, to plain white rice.
I am from ruined shacks,
and castles painted more than twice.
I am from the depth of woods;
my roots are sewed into the ground.
I’m just a minuscule hummingbird,
that makes a loud clarion sound.
I am from parachutes, guns and grenades.
From the blood that flows through my mother’s and father’s veins.
I’m from needles and thread,
from red wine and stale bread,
and the lead covered papers that hang on the wall.
The doddering photos are gone once and for all
I am from chess figures, to brass covered strings.
The melody of a cello’s voice when it sings.
I am the legacy, the story, the myth that will be portrayed,
to the highest of monarchs and back to the slayed. .
I am from polyester and silk, to the taste of almond milk.
And the essence of candles to dangerous fumes.
I am from a place that’s not on the map.
It isn’t a city, a country, a state.
A dead man’s history is another man’s fate.
But one day, a pocket-sized hummingbird like me
will have the wings of an albatross.
And fly higher than all other birds there could be;
floating above the mountain tops.