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Indignation

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It might have been a little harder to breathe,

as recent events had thickened the air, but

then again, mountain air is much thinner,

as you know, one can tire more easily…

if one is not accustomed.

But there was no indignation in the streets.

The days might have darkened a little,

with Russia’s hints of aggression, but there were

slopes to ski and shops to visit, after all, we

were a family on vacation. Recurring brutality and melancholy

belonged to other countries, those on Europe’s outermost fringes.

                                                But there was no indignation in the streets.

Our suitcases were full of clothes we would never

wear again— some stains can never be removed. The attacks

were relentless, barbaric, true to the ancient soul and spirit

of a “revolution loving” Russia. Silenced by images of innocent families

swept up in the bombings, I thought to myself— what a GREEDY BASTARD.

                                                Finally, a surge of indignation, and I was in the street.