I am from the parchment that slides through my fingers,
from the frail, old children’s book
that is torn to pieces.
I am from honey and leaves, a sweet known to make a cup of tea.

I am from the rose bush that hid my grandparents,
to keep them safe when they were near.
I am from the shivers,
during the cold, constant nights.
I am from the sorrow and snow,
feeling within and fallen upon.

I am from the foreign tongue,
with hazel eyes and dark brown hair.
I am from the shots fired
the banging on doors to await their end.

I am from thousands, not only I.
I am from the accused, the runaways.