Our fear <br />does not wear a night shirt <br />does not have owl’s eyes <br />does not lift a casket lid <br />does not extinguish a candle <br /> <br />does not have a dead man’s face either <br /> <br />our fear <br />is a scrap of paper <br />found in a pocket <br />‘warn Wójcik <br />the place on Dluga Street is hot’ <br /> <br /> <br />our fear <br />does not rise on the wings of the tempest <br />does not sit on a church tower <br />it is down-to-earth <br /> <br /> <br />it has the shape <br />of a bundle made in haste <br />with warm clothing <br />provisions <br />and arms <br /> <br /> <br />our fear <br />does not have the face of a dead man <br />the dead are gentle to us <br />we carry them on our shoulders <br />sleep under the same blanket <br /> <br /> <br />close their eyes <br />adjust their lips <br />pick a dry spot <br />and bury them <br /> <br /> <br />not too deep <br />not too shallow<br /><br />Zbigniew Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-fear/
