Flowers open and fade,
trees sigh as branches crack in the wind,
and the stripped leaves bleed red into the earth.
Waves wash blue then grey,
rain rattles cold or feather-soft.
Movement there is,
in dust motes and the clouds,
in the wind and waves
and the flight of the swan.
Change and decay,
though our feet are planted firm,
and we shout loud at the waning moon, the setting sun.
Nothing stands still,
not even the stars
that are dead and dry as dust
beyond their false glitter.
This is for Sonya’s photo prompt.
Photo©Bruno Nascimento via Unsplash
They hid by day and moved silently through the city at night with their tracts, their paint and determination in their hearts.
Since the military coup and the massacres, nothing beat to the pulse of nature amid the grey concrete: no cats prowled, no dogs barked, no garden sent green tendrils sprawling or flowers nodding splashes of colour; a grim, colourless life had become the new norm.
By night, the partisans posted their texts of defiance, sprayed caricatures on public buildings, and here and there, in memoriam, they painted flowers so the people would not forget.