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Seven years
in chains
while love lies barren, while children grow; one lost, one not known, and others left unseeded now will never be. Grim, terrible years in subterranean cells, a pawn of evil hypocrites; passed from hand to hand across the Muslim archipelago, taped and bagged like some dead meat, despised, inedible, but useful in a trade. Harsh and painful years of darkness, damp, and dirt, humiliations heaped in myriads, hatred and contempt received, returned. Wasted, empty years? Not quite. No years are empty in a life; and wasted--that depends on what is made of them, and after. by Terry Anderson
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Copyright
© 1999 Terry Anderson |
