Sarah Tun writes because it is the best way to stay sane, keeping ideas flowing and cobwebs at bay. First published at age 7 by her school principal, she’s been writing ever since. Poetry most recently has featured in Pangolin Review, Soft Cartel, Ariel Chart and Scarlet Leaf. Find more at: www.laruspress.com
Scars of the Bosnian War
Bullet holes stare into me their vacant looks: despair Mortar once had life; now only shells stand there which penetrate the back of me as I breeze past on the road the haunting — it remains within unburdening its load.
Sarajevo victim of war and hate and strife decades now have passed time now: return to life! Hard faces focus straight ahead war wounds embedded within scars invisible, yet laid bare expose where they have been.
Sarajevo Rose embedded in the ground tell your tales of victims without making a sound: the screams of shells fill my ears images cannot touch; the truth of horrors tho unseen speculation knows so much.
Wounds of silenced guns hang empty in the air a city once a-thriving; lacks hope or joy or flair. And yet a firmer grip remains within this place -- a staunch commitment, inner strength Survival speaks this race.
Sarajevo Jewel a dream beyond despair where life promises renewal now let hope repair.
A home of soiled garments stench so strong breaks my heart for warmth you long. You live in a shack: so dark no candle glow, no life, no spark so poor, so lonely heart can’t claim hope. No-one knows 'till now, so maimed inside you cry. Yet bravely on you and your children beg for yarn or food or money to pay for heat yet nothing comes - there is no meat. Today will pass, tomorrow come Look what poverty and war have done.
Woman you are angry puffing on your cigarette You did nothing wrong yet face ultimate regret.
Your child has been abandoned your husband has been wronged you — raped and broken watched them die — how you’ve suffered for so long.
Face hard and full of anger from hatred you received; yet proudly, silently you linger over memories you do not need.
You brush them past your eyesight into darkness stuff them down and lapse into a blanket stare no peace behind your frown.
For hanging onto anger and bitterest despair will keep you sane and stronger than hope or vacant air.
So enthusiastic he was as he explained his wares to me The rug man and his carpets were so beautiful to see. And more than that there was his joy at Bosnian craft and skill; If I could have stayed an hour or more I would have had much thrill to see within his face a light I had not seen to date, a hope and pride within this man that was otherwise lost to fate. The country's woes are clear to us who walk beside this race a nation's sadness, clear to see except in Rug Man's face.
A gentle blend of pride and shame I wonder where he casts his blame this staunch man with a friendly grin unhappy, but it is no sin; a man who has no work what is he worth? For him his family needs to see confidence not sad-faced grim.
He came to find salvation yet hangs on to his past; he needs respect, a useful point to find solution that will last. He loves his wife and family this is clear and plain to see yet it must be hard not to complain hold on to hope and victory.
He came to find a way to flee instead he’s turned away; zero points to win his place in a country far away.
What of his self respect when he has no place to go? For the morning shift that never comes does he persevere or bow to disappointment, pressure surrender in the face of obsolescence, failure does he feel a harsh disgrace?
There is no shame in trying to leave when there is no hope to gain a job or recognition. It’s amazing he refrains from madness or alcohol, abandonment or shame. You are a wonder Mr —Vich the man that bears no name.