My Daughter is Under the Wooden Floor

My daughter will be alone

when I climb the hill again,

to fight for our daily meal.

Where is the woman I love

the mother of my daughter?

They came in the night

and took her away.

I am sorry

I could not fight longer.

She loved Naomi.

They stole her peace,

the best of her home.

Every day I carry her in my thoughts,

like a quiet ache that never leaves.

My daughter sleeps

under the wooden floor,

where the wind ignores her.

I tell her I’ll be back

before the crickets start to sing.

She believes me.

Children always believe.

Go to the valley of Horeb

go to my house,

see if the roof still stands,

if the smoke still rises straight.

Move the chair by the wall,

and listen under the floorboards.

You might hear my daughter breathing,

or the soft rhythm of her sleep.

If you find this letter,

know that I am on the hill,

still warring for the day’s meal.

Tell me, please

does my daughter still breathe?

Whisper her name, Naomi.

She won’t answer strangers.

Because fear has taught her silence.

If you can, stay a while.

Be her guardian for this hour.

I will be back, see you soon stranger

Tell my daughter

her father is still trying.