just to survive the terrible things
that we are living through.
Home
Children born in wars
are made of a different kind of clay.
We become used to the din.
We grow used to the collapse
of crumbling buildings
and fire and develop a compassion
for broken things.
How can we not when we know
nothing else?
My mother raised me
in a palace where the marble floors
cracked under
the distant clash of God weapons,
adamantine against adamantine.
The cloud-coloured pillars
that held our home up
were disintegrating from the roars
of the heavens above us.
I was told these hallowed halls were
once visited by a thousand giggling nymphs
and hundreds of glittering deities.
But now it was just a haunting
where only my mother and I lived.
When the call to war came,
the Gods, my uncles and cousins, left.
Eventually everyone had to pick a side.
Most of the Titans chose to support my father:
