I rest in the warm cradle of my mother’s grief;
Her heart that beats thunder offers no relief.
The stories of war are etched deep into her veins—
|And through her, it flows into me as my own chains.

Is it me? Am I the one chosen as the only heir
Of cities burned into ashes lingering in the air?
The sound of bombs, though muffled and faint,
Shapes her very womb—leaving bruises that taint.

Will I have my grandfather’s longing for olive trees?
Or gasp with the lungs that my grandmother seized?
What would be left in me that I will call home?
What roots will I find to call it my very own?

Pain travels down the family line until someone must feel
The unearthed scars that time won’t ever conceal.
And though I am burdened by what came to be,
This is the closest thing to inheritance that will ever be.

- Sean Clifford M. Malinao
(Photo courtesy of Ryan Rozbiana on X; Layout by Phoemella Jane Balderrama/FEU Advocate)