Where are all the White Roses by Anita Nabonne

I am not a silent poet

He remembers

snowy white linen,

exquisite tablecloths…

and laughter as his trembling

fingers play with idle

shirt tails;

snowy white linen

folded back on tables,

smoothed by callused

hands while his eyes

were busy, drawn

to the streets –

still not hardened

to war, still dotted

with flecks of hope.

Today, outside

of his dark, crumbling

recesses where only

his mind is safe to wander,

life tries to carry on,

but its shoulders

are hunched from fear,

legs are paralysed,

tired, knee deep in rubble;

dereliction rises

along with memories

that were smells

of hot coffee

and fresh, frosted rolls.

Voices chatter briskly

as stretched nerves

are released temporarily;

screams tether

their hearts once again

to people they once knew

two minutes ago;

perhaps blown apart,

or maybe it was children

all along, simply playing where

they shouldn’t –

perhaps memories are

confused – perhaps.

Instantly, familiar sights

and sounds…

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