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Show "How about the others?" "What others?" He frowned. The jacket fell away to expose a hairless chest. "There are still twenty-one of us left from the sixty that came with me from Amsterdam." "You are the only one." "Then I will go and work with the others in the garden." "But you don't have to go." I shook my head. "I can't go without the others." I walked away, wondering if I was a fool. We carried the boy's body back to the barracks, cleaned the sewage from his limp form, and prayed over his body. The next morning, orders came that twenty of us would be moved to the "big" barracks. I knew that we would live then, and I wept. by Gus Havas as told to James Berrett The Limbless Tree by C. Taufer There I have said it I do not love you. You give me your hand And withhold the gentle touch. Christmas And shadows And a dead man's face They're all the same to you Unvarying gray. Cold calloused lips Will know no more My embracing passion. Arms of hardened steel Can stand firm Against another wind. I withdraw I am weary I am aching to be alone To find something worth being called worthy. 30 Sonnet by Laurence Huston I stand wind-blown on the hill that watches my town, The town that once was mine. The musky wind Inhales the dust, then spits it across the round Cement statue that stood defiant of them. These farms, my farm, is battle-scarred. The shells Have blown and ripped its crust apart. The soil Has grayed, fertilized with the dead. The hills That held our homes were burned to cover the fall. And yet, this ugly land was once my home. The vallies were forests, stretching further than I Ever could wander, green and fresh, and some Of this land, this warm unspoiled land, was mine. My town has stopped and soon, when I have left, It will have died: the wind its epitaph. |