“The Theatre”

Dark times ahead.

This one line I read.

Words loaded with silence, voices tense and frail.

I do worry in Peace.

I do worry in War.

I was one year old,

I was told,

Invasion and airplanes stroke,

One child flew from this balcony, long time before Spiderman,

I believed them.

I am twelve years old,

I scan the narrow road,

No soft footprints, not here nor there,

Butterflies of smoke?

But butterflies don’t lie

Fly to the moon my beautiful, fly...

I named it “The Theatre”, not much of Shakespeare,

This building facing my home,

Dusty rusty façade of many holes,

I count them every day,

Colorful mousselines dangling of panic, waving their fear

Sorrow is heavy as a bag we carry,

In defeat.

I pick one, the green one,

One day I will lay it there,

On its grave next to a tear.

I can see this playful child running up the building,

One, two, three, he gets the fourth floor,

Bright inquisitive brown eyes, calling a laugh,

Five, Six, he has no cape anymore.

I am still writing, I don’t understand,

Façade of holes,

Boredom has its tricks,

No electricity and it’s cold,

Only candles and shadows,

Every night, it is Halloween.