Poland


There are no bands,
Not a sound.
No trumpet blares a note.
But straight and fine,
sure and sharp.
We set off for our goal.

Smog has settled
and haunts the street,
a cobweb curling round.
Chokes the free,
strangles dreams
and muffles every sound.

We chose to differ
then grew as one,
to rest the common foe.
A million banners
took the stand
and freedom struck a blow

We spoke too loud.
Asked too much.
Took more than we should.
Held flags too high.
Stood too proud.
And spilt no enemies blood.

The virus grows,
attacks, we fall.
The pain burns deep inside.
No shadows fight.
No silenced talk.
Where can a nation hide?

1982, March

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