The first night

They approach

And pick a flower from our garden

And we don’t say anything.

The second night,

No longer hiding, they

Stomp on the flowers, kill our dog,

And we don’t say anything.

Until one day

The weakest of them

Enters our house alone

Robs us of light, and,

Knowing our fear,

Robs us of the voice of our throats.

And because we said nothing,

We no longer can say anything.

Vladimir Mayakovsky