Her name is Aunica
To some she is just another face
In an ordinary place
Another individual of habit, manner, and style
An elderly stout woman whose brown complexion
Bares the stamp of her ethnicticity
Amongst the hustle and bustle of others in a small café
She is the quiet old lady whom labors away
In a back room filled by the monotony of everyday
Routines, her hands are coarse, yet strapping
Unto an average customer, she saunters about
Replacing silverware and plates
But goes virtually unnoticed by most
Except for one, who see beyond
Weary eyes and a worn black apron
For if only they could see your soul
There would be a cloud of sorrow
And ever present shadow of despair
When cities in your homeland Serbia
Violently collapsed due to prolonged warfare
And conflicts, your heart plummeted to the bottom
Of your being along with it
A city now converted into mounds of ash
And ascending clouds of smoke
Memories of a life, you once had
Are now swept aimlessly about
By a ruthless and non sympathetic wind
Like those who executed their cruel tyranny
Upon the remnants of your very foundation
Through compassion and understanding
I have acquired eyes that see
You have opened up you home to me
I have eaten in your presence
And extended unto you an ear
For many stories this woman
Has shared, these tales I will hold
For her, life has been truly cold
So now it is known
If they could see your soul
The fierce light of your courage
Would be ever so blinding
Your determination and inner strength
Are akin to a lions roar
And an aura whose mere presence
Casts a vibration that is piercing
To the casual eye you are just
That simple woman whom carries
A tray of plates and smiles
Amid the conversations and
Cigarette smoke,
Yet,
If only they could see your soul
(This poem is dedicated to all those who have experienced
The misfortune and the loss due to war in some form or another
You will always be remembered)
To some she is just another face
In an ordinary place
Another individual of habit, manner, and style
An elderly stout woman whose brown complexion
Bares the stamp of her ethnicticity
Amongst the hustle and bustle of others in a small café
She is the quiet old lady whom labors away
In a back room filled by the monotony of everyday
Routines, her hands are coarse, yet strapping
Unto an average customer, she saunters about
Replacing silverware and plates
But goes virtually unnoticed by most
Except for one, who see beyond
Weary eyes and a worn black apron
For if only they could see your soul
There would be a cloud of sorrow
And ever present shadow of despair
When cities in your homeland Serbia
Violently collapsed due to prolonged warfare
And conflicts, your heart plummeted to the bottom
Of your being along with it
A city now converted into mounds of ash
And ascending clouds of smoke
Memories of a life, you once had
Are now swept aimlessly about
By a ruthless and non sympathetic wind
Like those who executed their cruel tyranny
Upon the remnants of your very foundation
Through compassion and understanding
I have acquired eyes that see
You have opened up you home to me
I have eaten in your presence
And extended unto you an ear
For many stories this woman
Has shared, these tales I will hold
For her, life has been truly cold
So now it is known
If they could see your soul
The fierce light of your courage
Would be ever so blinding
Your determination and inner strength
Are akin to a lions roar
And an aura whose mere presence
Casts a vibration that is piercing
To the casual eye you are just
That simple woman whom carries
A tray of plates and smiles
Amid the conversations and
Cigarette smoke,
Yet,
If only they could see your soul
(This poem is dedicated to all those who have experienced
The misfortune and the loss due to war in some form or another
You will always be remembered)
Email this story 
Print Story 
Add to reading list
