Our fear does not wear a night shirt does not have owl’s eyes does not lift a casket lid does not extinguish a candle does not have a dead man’s face either our fear is a scrap of paper found in a pocket ‘warn Wójcik the place on Dluga Street is hot’ our fear does not rise on the wings of the tempest does not sit on a church tower it is down-to-earth it has the shape of a bundle made in haste with warm clothing provisions and arms our fear does not have the face of a dead man the dead are gentle to us we carry them on our shoulders sleep under the same blanket close their eyes adjust their lips pick a dry spot and bury them not too deep not too shallowSourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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