Cursing Hitler

House lights and street lights flickered and dimmed,
as the din of air raid sirens flooded every corridor
like ice cold blood rushing down from the hills.
Soon every light went black, and every sound went silent,
and every breath was held, and every hand was clenched.
Even the iron hands of the old town clock were too afraid to move.

Time stood still, and all the people in the city stood frozen.
But on this night instead of the hum of airplanes approaching,
the coarse scratch of a wood match against a concrete wall broke the silence,
and the flickering face of a withered old man lit the room.
Time moved for him alone as he inhaled from his pipe, and dropped the match.
Pushing through the stillness he opened a door, and stepped into the street.

“I’m sick of your bloody fucking war!” he cursed.
Then he looked up, puffing his tobacco,
and dared the sky to answer him.
Tired and proud, he stood alone,
and he waited, unwavering,
for Hitler to respond.