From long years of ‘normal life’
Many wonder of the knife
I blessed and thrust inside a foe
Who would not hear me saying “No”.
In prison, I have pondered long
The circumstance that made me wrong.
Yet acting not would have defiled
A promise once made to a child.
When I was young, I knew a man,
An ‘uncle’ in my cultured clan
Who, child himself, was forced to flee
From mother’s love and father’s knee,
Crossing nations to escape
Those who meant his life to take
And caring not, for they were wild
Who did not flinch to kill a child.
I was too small to understand.
I just knew my uncle’s hand.
With kindness, generosity,
All he gave was Love to me.
T’was later, reading in a book
Of the lives the Shoah took
As horror upon horror piled
I made my promise to a child.
I wondered, if it had been me
Living in that Germany,
Would I too be deaf and blind?
Refusing in myself to find
The courage needed to oppose?
Today, I’m answered, for I chose
To, once, abandon meek and mild
To keep a promise to a child.
I wrote this poem in prison. Today is a good day to share it.
Thank you to Keith Osmund-Smith for reminding me of it.
My victim was not seriously harmed, although I did do slightly more harm than I intended at the time. I really do regret that and I probably apologised for that in court. And my victim was a bully; she colluded with other bullies and the park I lived on was rife with the harassment of minorities. I stood up to them and they all hated me. Given the way the energy was going, a lot of crime towards me was about to be committed, by both my victim and others. My offence halted this energy in the park itself, although it continued to pursue me through the criminal justice system.
Maybe I was wrong, but I’d just had enough of being bullied. Doing the deed as a shaman meant there was a chance some good could come out of it and, if I atoned, I’d be forgiven.
But, as a woman, I will NEVER regret acting!