At dawn, when disturbed by the tramp of their boots,
The full-throated bellow of their songs
and the swing of their marching arms…
When with due caution, I curl within myself,
Prickly as some hedgehog…
When the dark of a very long night
gets smeared like mud on the windows…
When the forefinger of the impossible
Starts to pester me from behind the curtains,
When it strokes me, rubs me out,
scatters my ashes all over the bed…
That’s when I won’t look back at my memories,
Fearful they will change to salt.
More and more abscesses form on my flesh
but I can’t ask for help…
At dawn, when disturbed by the tramp of their boots…