When I heard that the house I called mine
was stolen, I asked the authorities who
the owner was. They said: "Your head is full of ash,
you're still weak, you know nothing of the fight."

When I heard that the owner was alive
and carried the key in his pocket, I sent
the locksmith away. He went to the authorities.
Then the locks were changed.

On memorial days, called to remembrance
my fellow downtrodden roamed in my head.
Beneath the ash, the issue smoldered, unsaid.
But the owner never came. It slowly went dead.