We who were shot for our hunger
were back at our looms.
With hands of muck and mull
we kept the threads running straight.
We wove shroud upon shroud
for the authorities in Breslau
who had sent the army against us,
for the owners
who had created the new poverty
and for the hypocritical deity
who had let all of this happen.
We wove and wove –
and realised the fabric was endless.
What grew out of our hands
was the trial
you naïvely refer to as ‘history’.