by Oz Hardwick
Prague, Warsaw, Leipzig
There he is, black–clad, blurred
face contorted, chaos in his eyes
before the shield wall, incendiary limbs
lashing the flamebright night. Torn
flags, smashed skulls and windows,
dogs strain and snarl at the wave
of stones breaking on makeshift barricades,
throats raw with gas and smoke.
And he is always there, on the trembling newsreel,
the samizdat sheet, ripped from the crowd,
stark in tracks of the armoured car,
dodging batons and bullets, fist
raised like a banner, proud and defiant,
his image burning like petrol on skin.