The Field
The plane is waiting,
that last one
on the grass.
Waiting for death to pass,
to leave
with me when I am Godot.
Young and too mortal
life is too tough.
One thousand moth lives
but not enough.
Like a dead mans memory
or the rocks in a well
with rustier blood
I see the wall,
the field and the plane,
The German guards,
the rain
and the end of it all.
Wistful like a loss,
like a race to forget
the last bet.
Longing for a common light
and yet
in this dark night
I find only one last meal,
one last childhood thought,
one last cry
and one last battle fought.
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