In Other Words, Freedom by Maria Stadnicka

I am not a silent poet

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.

freedomMaria Stadnicka is a writer, freelance journalist and lecturer.  She started writing at the age of seven and published her first poems in 1995.

Between 1996 and 2003 Maria lived in Iasi and Botosani, Romania and won 12…

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