Heavy is the burden of history.
Heavier made by the great deeds of the dead.
Heaviest when placed upon the shoulders of lost men.
And I, so small when taught proud to be,
For I was Greek.
I was taught that "this people
does not kneel but before its fallen heroes"
That Democracy and Liberty were worth my life,
That to love, meant to gladly accept to die.
Then I grew up some, different type of night sky.
Eyes that longed for home, now loved new horizons.
And I was made French!
And that meant liberté-égalité-fraternité,
and it meant Les Misérables and excellent wine,
and exquisite Camembert.
But most importantly it meant family,
And hikes by the seaside of Normandy,
old vinyl records of Édith Piaf and Joe Dassin,
and lazy summers in Paris where everything smelt of love!
And I learnt to be Italian,
because to be Roman meant to believe in the Republic,
it meant to have honour.
Because I sing operas out of tune,
and because of the Italian soldier my grandma saved in WWII.
Because of Michelangelo and Botticelli.
Because my hell belongs to Alighieri!
And I lived as a German,
because of Kant and Nietzsche and Beethoven,
of good football and even better beer,
because to be German is to be looked down upon,
and still manage to have pride,
because you've earned it!
Because you don't look back in anger,
but you cling on to the future.
And because of the little streams in Freiburg,
and the intercontinental dinners we made in tiny flats.
Because in 2015, freedom tasted like cheap ale and Germans cigars!
And I spoke like the British,
and in doing so I learnt to be Scottish and Irish and English and Welsh
and to love equally all the king's men.
Because of poetry and tradition,
because of good manners or lack thereof.
Because of the Beatles!
Because to this day I can't decide who's killed the most,
007 or Doctor Who?
Because I drink my tea at 6pm and dammit, I drink it hot!
And I learnt to be Hungarian and Croatian and Dutch and Czech and Irish and Polish and Spanish and so forth and so on...
Because I learnt to be European and to be at home!
And for all the glorious things I was so meticulously taught,
There was only one they forgot.
True heartache lies not in lovers' parting lips,
Safe for the void in the eyes of those who've naught to believe.
For the hour grows late and the world falls deep,
When Fridays feel like Sundays and metropoles weep.
When institutions collapse and small people
with pained shoulders commit reckless deeds.
