Black Saturday
It’s the same story told over and over and over. Same horrific details. Same descriptions. Same turns of phrase – It was like a hurricane – a hurricane of fire You could feel the oxygen being sucked out of the air The roar was like a thousand jet aircraft – I’ll never forget the roar I saw the fire come in the smallest crack – like a blow-torch – searching for oxygen The tops of the trees were snapped off – not by the fire – by the wind – by the force of the wind We had no warning We only had seconds The house was on fire and so was the car We lost everything – everything The whole town is gone – it’s all gone The whole family has gone It’s a wasteland of death It’s like Hiroshima I haven’t been able to cry yet This morning he was here — The same story. But always a different story teller. So many story tellers. Too many story tellers. Not enough story tellers. It is Wednesday and five minutes before the end of the music lesson. Twenty five eight-year-olds have been happily engaged in ...
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