My Father Poem by Almas Assylbekov

My father drank a lot.
He lost his job,
his country, his belief and hope.
Though many years passed,
he keeps his passport,
valid to his past.
He often says he really hates
the country that destroyed his place,
meaning the United States.
Sometimes he cries, I know...
He does it on his own,
leaving late calls on my mobile phone.
My father hasn't saved
some money, but saved his faith
as though he's never been betrayed.
It seems he's carrying his devotion to the grave;
no matter that it has no sense.
My father used to be a Soviet...
Slave.