• Maria Stadnicka

The fires of Europe bring a call to silence. 

Upon us, a call to wipe clean

the arrogance of a continent turned to ashes.


I am taking shelter in a dead city

as tall as the burning building cranes

and black and white children stare,

in waiting, at green lights.


At a crossing, between cyanide waters,

the passengers crammed elbow to elbow 

collect old postage stamps.


It is the morning of doubt.

I prepared for this all my life,

with a blunt nib.