There is a home in survival.

Balls are too costly

Young baba plays soccer kicking sand

Chants of survivor stories sing from the bleachers

rhymes of solace sculpt dirt schools together

hide and seek with the angels of fallen boys

schools turn to body identification

Grandma promises trophies

once the war is over

She teaches

The boys to write names in the sand

Knowing it will not be there tomorrow

Somehow,

Hope is hidden in the dirt of war zones

Parties are hosted inside the borders of rubble.

We sing,

Like it is the last chance for our stories to be heard.

The family toasts to tomorrow.

Whether we are invited or not,

we will still show up.

If not in person,

then in spirit.

If not in spirit,

then in prayer.

For more poems, check out Marjan's book: marjaanxpoetry.com/buy-bloodline