They left in boarded-up trains.
I escaped into a fairy tale.
Tanks rolled down the street.
I gazed at the birds.
From the forts billowed smokestacks.
I was tending grandmother's flowerbeds
which had just started to bloom.

The third time that I stood
at an open grave
I placed my faith in death.

As fountains of blood and fire spewed from the earth
and torrents drowned out the last bit of hope,
I planted a blackthorn in my window.
Begrudging a rock I compose fairy tales.