In the cobbled narrative of the streets
we tread boldy & with care
seeing the spell others can’t
or won’t see – while the massman links
arm in arm with his own kind, singing –
a boy whistling in the dark to
keep up his spirits
We shall continue to speak
Does it matter to him the song,
his song, isn’t real? It doesn’t
matter, it could have been any song
so long as belonging was both
its destiny & its seed &
an enemy forthcoming
The few present countless rational
arguments which fall on stony
ground, again & again – tired, we
discern only those who can hear
Disappointment has become our friend
We shall continue to speak
At Cmentarz Grabiszyński we
have four graves, each lovingly
attended. On Halloween, we will gather
our candles, pay our respects at the
annual ceremony- we know
many of them died in the camps
Some sang the same song of believers
were gradually led, step by step inside
closed, airless rooms, failed to notice
their slow pilgrimage of death
put on the narrative as armour like
children eager for any comforting tale
You discover human beings love hysteria
are addicted to drama &, denuded
systematically of real life & meaning,
are willing to play their part in feeding the beast
the mad anomaly in a divine experiment
gone awry – hypnotised by something
deeper & darker than any blind fear
Know one thing – we shall continue to speak
COPYRIGHT Simon Heathcote
PHOTOGRAPH Karsten Winegeart
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