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She sits by the stream of consciousness with the echo of silence

Takes her mind into blistering darkness below false reason’s truth

Down by the water of tears she lights a candle in her mind’s storms

Embraces the sadness of sorrows and rewires misleading thoughts


They called her a witch with no conscience a gipsy lost on the road

Burnt her broomstick branded her skin and confiscated her wagon

Shackled her whistles and bells to hot metal rods and straightjackets

Turned down the heat in the foregone conclusion that she was gone


Yet when the ashes rose she floated on wings of kind forgiveness 

Remembered her many friends in Auschwitz in the chambers of hell

She had come prepared in a purple jumpsuit made from asbestos

Forged by history and knowledge that she was stronger than hatred


She assembled a step ladder one rung at a time and slowly ascended

To a waxing moon sickled with hope and compassion into laughter

‘These imbeciles did not take my passion for starlight and wisdom’

‘My tea leaves are stronger and smell of freedom scented in love’


She brought a basket of sandalwood and sweet lavender dreams

And retrieved a besom bequeathed to her by ancestry’s lineage

Looked up to the sky and breathed a prophecy painted from clouds

Sealed her escape with seven locks of her hair and brushed off the dust


15th November 2019

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