In Other Words, Freedom

The fatal morning Europe woke up and thought it had something to say,
there was nobody else left in the world able to listen.
Oh, earth, the bones had gathered to queue for bread,
by the front door at Saint Joseph seminary.

An ordinary day for ordinary death.
The bakery opened and closed.
The workers arrived on time for a last shift then went home.
The ovens had no traces of grain.

The ink stained hope filled up rusty water pipes.
The crowds’ whisper went on, up the hill, out of the city.

After that, freedom meant nothing.
It all came down to
who could hold the front running place the longest.

Maria Stadnicka

 

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