Yellow Cross / Pink Triangle
The boy,
Walked through the burnt grass,
Walked through the wire camps,
Walked through the unending night,
Often alone.
And he thought,
Of all the mountains I have climbed,
Of all the borders I have crossed,
Of all the hands I have held,
Where is there a place to call my own?
Where?
But in the rainbow hearts of the flushed,
Untouchables!
Given their all.
Where?
But in the silence of the stolen,
Footprints,
Fading through an empty hall.
Where?
But in the cruel black snows of spring,
Weird flowers sounding,
The first few notes of subversion.
