CHILD OF THE SYCAMORE

We who were cut from its trunk
   toppled from its crown  
gathered and chopped to little pieces…

we as dry as its dead branches
   raked up with its leaves
thrown on the hot coals and burnt to ash…

kitchen stoves take us
   in their fiery hands
before they blow us away…

but if anyone asks: who are you?
we still reply,

I am a child of the sycamore

ዛሬም የዋርካ ልጅ

ዛሬም የዋርካ ልጅ