Poem Hunter
Poems
Recurrent Dream
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Recurrent Dream

The fog rolls in,
and just in time.
The silence of
the straightest trees
that do exist
on this sad globe,
it numbs the senses,
blunts the mind.
A hundred metre dash
to freedom,
boldly asking
and demanding,
was it there just
for the taking?

Shots fired,
crackles then
and no more news,
from hand-held radio,
split seconds later
painful sounds
of real bullets.

It's further south,
near the tall tower
by the river.
Welcome distraction
off we go, I lose a shoe
but cling to it,
the pack with non-essentials.
Breath comes,
not laboured
but as steam
of anger and defiance.

Awakening, another one,
how many nights
this dream has visited,
I do not know.
Perhaps it waits
for just one answer
to its question.

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