Poetry

Remember, my friends, when we were Free?
Remember the white sunlight on the hot dusty streets?
Remember when songs were sung without looking over our shoulders?
When poems were spoken out loud, in cafes?  In the street?
When laughter knew no check, no nervous glance?
Yes my friend, I know you do, even if you can't
Look me in the eye.

Once we danced around a fire - we spoke of whatever came into our Minds - 
I know you know this, inside yourself, I know you keep it,
deep inside your secret chest.  Under your grey 
and inconspicuous coat.

I know you all yearn for the return of a past mode.
But it will take years, war, a revolution -
and then, us survivors will be old.

Yes, we will be old, those of us who live.
Those of us who are not broken by those who wear the black.
Perhaps we'll run together into the evening sun,
stir the ashes of an old song
and look for life in it.