– Quizás, mis ojos son negros porque vieron demasiadas tormentas sin querer.
Demasiada lucha, demasiada hambre y cosas que no deberían ver.
Mis ojos son lagos claros; llenos del tormento de mi madre, tan gran,
Quando ella no sabía adónde buscarnos el siguiente pedazo de pan.
Hoy vivo en un país de gente con ojos azules y almas tan nobles.
De gente que siempre sonríe. Yo también sonrío.
Y a veces mis lágrimas siguen fluyendo, como un río.
Pero mis ojos todavía son negros. Y fuertes, como los robles.
– Mes yeux sont vertes, ou peut-être foncés
De tous les orages que j’ai vu, de fracas et de bruit.
Des fois, mes yeux changeants deviennent dorés
Comme le printemps murmurant doucement dans la nuit.
– Mi-s ochii bruni ca mierea de-asta vara
Si-n ei port stelele si ploaia, alternand.
Port curcubeu si soare, port lup si caprioara
Toata padurea mea de-acasa o port ascunsa-n gand.
– My eyes are blue like seas in summer days
With shores of endless promises ahead
Sunsets so bright, setting horizons in a blaze
And plains of wheat – you’ll never worry again about the bread.
Los ojos negros, les yeux vertes, ochii bruni and the blue eyes
The same red blood runs through all veins and we all matter.
We love the same green grass; we’re sheltered by the same bright skies,
And all together, we drink the same colourless water.
– Who knows, perhaps my eyes are black because they saw too many storms, without wanting it
Too many fights, too much famine and things they shouldn’t have seen
My eyes are clear lakes, full of my mother’s agony, so great,
When she didn’t know where to find us the next piece of bread.
Today I live in a country of blue-eyed people, with hearts so noble.
People who always smile. I smile too.
And sometimes, my tears keep flowing, like a river.
But my eyes are still black. And strong like the oaks.
– My eyes are green. Or maybe dusky.
From all the storms I have seen and from noise and fracas.
Sometimes, my changing eyes turn golden
Like the Spring murmuring sweetly through the night.
– My eyes are brown like honey from the yester summer
Within them, I carry stars and rains in turns
I carry the rainbow and the sun, the wolf and the deer
The forest of my home – I carry it hidden in my thoughts.
We live in times of great turmoil; worldwide, we are divided by power, greed, discord and famine. I think it is more important than ever to acknowledge that we live under the same sun and that we are all equal. I think we should all concentrate on the things that unite us, rather than divide us.
In the poem “About the eyes”, I imagined 4 different characters, with different languages, different eye colours and different life experiences. They are made by the different memories each of them carries.
The black eyes remember storms, wars and their mother, trying to find her children’s next piece of bread. Even when they find peace, living in a different country, a country of blue-eyed people, the memories come back.
The green eyes remember different kinds of storms and spring nights.
The brown eyes remember the enchanted forest of their childhood.
The blue eyes have never known famine and they reassure the black eyes that they will never have to worry about the bread.
In the end, we all have the same red blood running through our veins and we all drink the same colourless water.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present and emerging. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.