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The Weight of the Clock
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The siren is different this year.
It isn’t a call to stand;
it is a hand pressing down on our shoulders,
demanding we carry a year that felt like a century.
It isn’t a call to stand;
it is a hand pressing down on our shoulders,
demanding we carry a year that felt like a century.
We used to count the years in decades,
in stories of old wars and black-and-white photos.
Now, we count in minutes—
the minute before the world broke,
and the endless minute we’ve lived in ever since.
in stories of old wars and black-and-white photos.
Now, we count in minutes—
the minute before the world broke,
and the endless minute we’ve lived in ever since.
There is a hollow frustration in the dirt,
a bitterness in the starch of the white shirts.
The names are too new; the ink is still wet.
How can we call it “memory”
when the wound hasn’t even closed?
a bitterness in the starch of the white shirts.
The names are too new; the ink is still wet.
How can we call it “memory”
when the wound hasn’t even closed?
We stand in the street, frozen,
while the heart thrashes against the ribs.
We are tired of being brave.
We are tired of being “the silver platter.”
We just want the silence to be a choice,
and not the only thing we have left of them.
while the heart thrashes against the ribs.
We are tired of being brave.
We are tired of being “the silver platter.”
We just want the silence to be a choice,
and not the only thing we have left of them.
(Irina Airinei)
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