Hidden in the shadow of Napoleon’s stallion,
a mother cries and a father despairs.
Grand schemes and trampling boots
intrude on our rooms and climb our stairs.
You were the janitor standing 40 meters
to the left of Martin Luther King
when world suddenly silenced
and his voice yelled «freedom ring».
You sat on the plains of Africa
before and after the West was known,
with a tired baby in your arms,
under a sun that shone and shone.
You did not know Hitler or Churchill,
nor did you publish your dream:
Invisible footsteps to unvisited graves,
and most of what has ever been.
Written by Michael Henrik Wynn