A woman sits quietly on a high bed. She cries
softly, very softly,
softly inaudible.
In her hands she holds a
piece of paper with a text in a
language she does not understand.
A thousand languages swear around .
They came on day. They came in the night. They stole the chickens. They stole the seed. They
screamed around. They
beat her.
They came on day. They came in the night. They took the man to
torture him. They took the girl
to rape. They beat her son dead. They let her see and they took her finally.
They came on the day. They came in the night. They burned the village. They burned the fields. They drove away the
cattle. They expressed the
children rifles in hand. They told them: kill the old. They called
themselves some god warrior.
They came on the day. They came in the night. They always came back.
On the high bed the
woman sits still crying softly.
She cries very quiet,
never heard softly. Here she knows no one,
who can see well enough to know how
she is crying.
She holds a piece of paper firmly in her hands. She sees it not.
She does not understand the language.
Just know that it means she has to flee again.
A thousand languages swear around
. What does it help her that
she is not alone in her flight.
