Dreams Of Granite

In camp we have
turned into stone.
Our hearts,
just like
our tears, rolling down
cheeks of stone
are made of anthracite.
The cries, the dreams, the moon
in the sky at night
seem to be
formed, dreamt and created
from granite.
The bread and the drops
of dirty water
are sour,
muddy fossils.
Our life,
the last breath
messed up,
the groaning, rattling
end of time,
embedded
in the concrete of the camp.
Our fate
chiseled
by the head of a hyena
into tables of stone,
leads us into petrified
hopelessness.

Jutka T. Emoke Barabas
Copyright by Jutka T. Emoke Barabas