Ulrike

Struggles like yours do not
simply spring from the dirt.
Rather, they grow from the
seeds of destruction,

Cultivated by farmers.
Armed and uniformed they
plow the cold, hard ground
in which resistance grows.

You were never really one for such
weak acts as protest –
Political power grows from
the barrel of a gun, at any rate –

Change required resistance
for you.
And so, in throwing yourself
into the fires,

Struggle became sacrifice,
Sacrifice became martyrdom
in a cold cell,
Stammheim,

Before you returned to
Berlin,
Forever laying in the ground
adorned with roses.

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“Protest is when I say this does not please me. Resistance is when I ensure what does not please me occurs no more.”

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