A flower died today.
I saw it disappear under many muddy, tramping boots as the soldiers dragged me away. But I knew that, sometime, somewhere, another would lift its brave head to the morning sun and cry out in defiance,
“I will live!”
Written May 18, 1984
From the Cold War Kid collection
A flower bloomed today.
I saw it out through the dusty, cracked basement window and watched as it struggled up toward the sunlight. It had chosen, this brave flower, a tiny knoll set in an expanse of dirty, muddy ground to begin its fight for existence. Rows upon rows of beaten, battered ruins of what used to be old and majestic houses surrounded the mud and some of them were part of it. They had been dirtied and scummed such as the mud and trampled by the same machine.
I was glad that the basement window only had a tiny crack in it because even a small wind brought the pale reek of death to my nostrils. I knew where it came from; the Morgue, the grave for thousands who had stood up for the Truth.
I glanced back out of the window at the flower and saw, as if for the first time, the beauty of its bloom. In the blackness and scum around it, it shone like a beacon. Tiny droplets of water, clean, glistened on its bright petals and ran down its sides, leaving gleaming streaks on its stem. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the flower’s beauty and marveled at it until the sun set and night covered the land with its soft, silent cloak. I turned from the window and quickly went to my pallet on the floor, eager for the new day.