Martial Law, Poland,1982

It was a time of greyness and of tanks,
of water cannons on the market square,
a time of strikes, protests, and fear. Despair
was a catchword we wore to work, the thanks
we gave for empty shelves, for brothers crushed
beneath the muddy wheels of ZOMO lorries,
the finger we would give to those, who, storeys
above us, smiled, then kept our voices hushed.

It was a time of all resistance smashed,
of vodka in our wounds and cigarette
smoke in our eyes—of promises rehashed.
It was a time of snitches, thugs on call,
of bravery, of kindness, of regret—
a time of praying—and—no hope at all.