Old Aker Kirke
#poem #travel #Norway #Oslo #OldAkerKirke #poetry At Old Aker Kirke at half past eight, a man put a rose in the old iron gate. He did not pause, he did not wait, he would stop, could not be late. The city woke, the sidewalk filled, and Oslo hummed; the rose was still. At Old Aker Kirke at half past four, the man walked by the gate once more. The rose was gone like the day before, like it would be tomorrow, for this was war.