My wife, now more bone than skin, insisted we burn the last of our furniture to heat the iron, to press the clothes. Hunger and defeat hung now so thick, that walking to the square occasioned no name calling or spitting. When they took our papers we knew. But still, hand in hand, beneath that rainless winter sky, foolishly we allowed ourselves the folly of hope.
It was then we heard the first of the planes.
No comments:
Post a Comment