It was a tired sentence, Worn out, centuries old maybe,
Dried on the beautiful lips of an old woman,
Looking far, without seeing…
Rubbing her majestic wrinkles together to warm up her hands in a winter morning…
Or was it the flame that died, long ago,
unnoticed,
In a house abandoned abruptly,
Never to see its people again…
Keeping the place warm,
for a while that is…
Or was it a bird that flew over our heads?
So silent, so effortless…
Through the smoke filled air
Thick as fog…
Blending in with the grey of all the pain…
Just a shadow, here, and then all gone the next second…
How could have we seen it?
We were so busy digging,
burying our dead,
and the living…
Malmö
Feb 2025