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68 years ago

68 years ago, I was onboard the world's oldest tank ship
wooden decks and looking like a sailing ship more than 
a tanker in the Black Sea on the way to Odesa. 
The sea had ice flakes, fishing vessels got stuck, and a Russian
minesweeper was on its way to help it was painted dark
blue and red; the sky was slightly overcast.
What I remember best was the silence, no TV. no noise
from constant communication in the cold air, above all 
no mobile phones had yet to intrude.
Now, ships loaded with grain follow a mine-free lane
on the way to the Dardanelles for inspection by men
in uniform before heading for Africa.
Not destined for the famished population, not yet 
the grain is stored in gigantic silos by trying governments
distributed by them at an inflated price, the poor 
cannot afford the starvation continues unabated.
We have been here before, in the winter of 1949, people 
froze to death when fishing and fell like nine pins when 
spring came; few families had any furniture left.
68 years ago, I recall the unmoving stillness, now
there is a cacophony of angry voices protesting against
the burden they are asked to carry for our leaders.

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