Of university days. Of theatre, street plays, changing the world. The belief that we will never let this fire die, that we are all in this together, this brotherhood of the Passionate. That autumn of Brecht. Of Kundera. Of Che. And Neruda. Of "Come and see the blood in the streets!"
A poem of Brecht. And it all comes back.
Rich cloth under my fingers
While yours touch poor fabric.
A quick embrace
You were invited for dinner
While the minions of law are after me.
We talk about the weather and our
Lasting friendship. Anything else
Would be too bitter.