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.

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