A Passing View
Outside it is cold, and I am weeping.
The cameras near as I pound the cobblestones with clenched fists.
My mother is dead: There were no doctors to save her from the tumour which consumed her leg, then her life.
My father is dead: At thirty, he appeared fifty, and at fifty, he seemed one-hundred.
My brother is lost: It is easier to think of him as only missing, although there are few doubts as to his fate.
Winter has come, and the Great Leader is gone.
Inside I am warm, and there is laughter.