When we were together
in the moist and molded bunker
the rain fell down through leaking holes
and poured on us to wash away this sin.
You took a feather
from the dead dove.
I remember very well
you wrote your name on me
with this feather on my skin
and with every stroke you wrote
I was more yours than I would ever be,
had it been written there with fire.
You engraved your name in me
with the feather, without trace,
with every touch and thought. With love.
In our embrace we spent the night
and the candle that we had, shone a
trembling yellow light
on concrete walls with swastika’s.
There I was your bride.