Memorial to the fallen of Mokotow

These streets pockmarked by bullets and shrapnel

record, like an old photograph

the terror of a specific afternoon

the crackle of guns, a face at a window

This simple concrete memorial

protects the memory of infamy

There is no glory in tyranny

It does not wave flags, or boast

It does not parade through town on stilts
but records in simple lines

the shape of a helmet

a rifle raised carefully

a stick man falling down