Flora Brobina - A Freed Bosnian Poet Remembers

I haven't yet learned to conquer
the fear of being alone.
Hoarded away with hundreds.
Then singled out,
as my words caused
trouble instead of giving hope.

They took my pen away as I wrote
on silent walls screaming with
protests on mute concrete.

The urge to write burned in me
like a flame of a lit match
allowed to flicker.
Then dipped in ash after it exhausted
itself, made a sooty ink
to write with, on stolen napkins
relighting my need to write.

Now, rescued and rejuvenated,
I stare down at stubby nubs of
once-upon fingers, punished for writing.
There is too much left to say.