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Sophie Scholl's Last Visit...

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Published: January 8, 2008
Sophie Scholl’s Last Visit with her Mother: Stadelheim Prison, February 22, 1943

              “Die Sonne scheint noch.” –Sophie Scholl’s final words

Like watching two thousand doves let loose,
              Mama, taking wing from university balconies—
                           the descending petals of 1700 white roses

dispensing our message. Unsinn, Alex and Willi
              called it, but I still wanted to dance in that shower
                            of leaflets, arms overhead, whirling in our words.

You must keep dancing—like the day I came
              home an hour early, found you and Papa
                            waltzing in the kitchen, before the White Rose,

secret meetings in Hans’s dorm, Freiheit in war
              paint on München walls. I wish you had seen us
                            at the university, children again in those few

moments. Never so proud, so liberated; I told them,
             Ich würde es alle genauso wieder machen. Ich bin
                            stolz darauf.
You see, Mama? The sun still shines
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c
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite colour, and you said, "the brown of your eyes," so i put in one green contact and told everyone that i came out of the womb as a factory defect, half-priced, damaged goods. - sometimes i am from canada and sometimes i am from england and sometimes i am from spain. i've carefully tempered my accents and plotted out my stories with yellow and purple coloured pencils on index cards. my origin changes like the seasons. "why do you lie to everyone?" you ask. "why not?" i reply. - i wear nametags that read "alicia" and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someon
a
absences
but this isn't just distance as in space, not just distance as in whispers of, "i can't believe how far you are from me, i miss you" - this isn't just distance in the way that roads seem to spill over hilltops for years, stretching like skin across knuckles but never ending,   no. this is the kind of distance that isn't seen but instead felt, that isn't marked by miles or gas money and can't be pinned in two spots on a map with red thumbtacks: this is not hearing from you for days and knowing you haven't noticed. this is wanting to have you beside me and knowing you're just fine   alone. this is the kind of dist
d
demonlogy
           remember remember                        the whispers of november -                      but wait, this isn't a revolution                                 it's not even a rebellion                            your white flag doesn't drop anything but morale                                            the one man army of nothing               staggered steps and dried tongues,                        cracked lips begging for Legion                                           for we are many                                   and the Unnamed is just many of our names                          heavy heart and lightened shoulder
© 2008 - 2019 tragiccomedy
German translations:
"Unsinn": madness, craziness, nonsense
"Freiheit": Freedom
"Ich würde... stolz darauf": I would do it all again exactly the same. I'm proud of it.

Spring 07 portfolio.

Sophie Scholl was real.
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c
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite colour, and you said, "the brown of your eyes," so i put in one green contact and told everyone that i came out of the womb as a factory defect, half-priced, damaged goods. - sometimes i am from canada and sometimes i am from england and sometimes i am from spain. i've carefully tempered my accents and plotted out my stories with yellow and purple coloured pencils on index cards. my origin changes like the seasons. "why do you lie to everyone?" you ask. "why not?" i reply. - i wear nametags that read "alicia" and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someon
a
absences
but this isn't just distance as in space, not just distance as in whispers of, "i can't believe how far you are from me, i miss you" - this isn't just distance in the way that roads seem to spill over hilltops for years, stretching like skin across knuckles but never ending,   no. this is the kind of distance that isn't seen but instead felt, that isn't marked by miles or gas money and can't be pinned in two spots on a map with red thumbtacks: this is not hearing from you for days and knowing you haven't noticed. this is wanting to have you beside me and knowing you're just fine   alone. this is the kind of dist
d
demonlogy
           remember remember                        the whispers of november -                      but wait, this isn't a revolution                                 it's not even a rebellion                            your white flag doesn't drop anything but morale                                            the one man army of nothing               staggered steps and dried tongues,                        cracked lips begging for Legion                                           for we are many                                   and the Unnamed is just many of our names                          heavy heart and lightened shoulder
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Comments (1)
LisaCya's avatar
Where did you find that? Or did you wrote it by yourself? I am looking for the german version.
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