As I lie

on this mattress

staring at the ceiling

and the fields behind my eyes

I think of Anna Akhmatova

whose only chance

of preserving her poems

through the times

of persecution

was to memorize

each one

by heart.

As I lie awake

under these glaring lamps

I think of the outline of

my only body.

And I think of them

and how they don’t understand

that even if they drag

a thousand trembling bodies

to a place

where they cannot be seen

and leave them there for days

or for years

they will never learn

how to tame our ideas

or catch a glimpse

of my dreams.

And they truly imagine

that this way they can

“do something about us”


that the one thing about us

that is “a threat” for them

is the one thing

they cannot


As I lie on this mattress

I think of Howard Zinn

and how he writes

that they have the guns

and we have the poets

and therefore we

will win.

I think of the way

the years and people unfold

inside these walls

they pass

and change

and return

and nothing ever changes

and no penalty punishes

nor a room

where bright ones

and mad ones

and strange ones

and those who refuse to comply

are thrown for a while.

And when the years have passed

and they’ve finally grasped

that they can fill up

all their jails

with piles of our warm bones

and still we will not end

like the bodies we are

we just pass through our cells

like time

when they finally get it

we’re already far away

we’ve walked

all the way across

the bridges of faith

when they finally get it

where there once were these walls

there will be an open field

filled with beauty and bustle

like it always was

strange, breathing blossoms

rising from it

like they always were:

our ideas and prayers,

the lanky limbs of our dreams.

I can feel the air

dense and heavy with them

as I lie

in this gloomy room

forgotten by fear.

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