Sarah Kane (1971-1999) Playwright
Four forty-eight and I can’t close my eyes
in case these thoughts congeal into a voice.
Resistance is so hollow, though I’ve tried,
sometimes it feels like I don’t have a choice.
Four forty-eight, and I can’t close my eyes.
There’s soldiers wearing rifles in the hall.
It’s closer than I ever realised –
the rise and the inevitable fall.
Four forty-eight, and I can’t close my eyes –
I feel a soldier breathing somewhere near.
Reality is hell when magnified;
they’d sooner ban the play than heed the fear.
How many choices does it take to dream?
How many voices does it take to scream?