Nicholas Cobic


They were born without a scream,
to mother Wind and father Concrete.
Their fear was cut like an umbilical cord.
They grew up in newspapers and TV reports,
and exchanged kindergarten for cells.

They clench sweaty fists and
count their scars like ammunition
in bullet holders. They nail
old wounds and unsettled debts
to wild terrace gates.

They prepare for stadium
as for the first day at school,
although the field of study is already familiar
and teachers are all exiled to a Stone Island.

"Stop!" - a dry throat can be heard.
"Are you one of us?" - doubt enquires.
They've gone too far
to dress in armour of stereotypes,
Burberry of hate and Prada of joy,
and to take a trophy from the enemy
as a proof of power and superiority.

They carefully remove skin from their backs
and spread it instead of banners;
anthems and songs tightly stretched in bows
in place of arrows and
a new construction of pride
is born in crystallised blood.

Geometry of songs annihilates spot lights.
Their faces are lost in camera flashes.
Only newspapers are left on seats.
Once more, in the aftermath
they are born without a scream.


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