Tuesday, August 26, 2003

To The Grass

Angelic stone women beckon, smiling.
I brush their mossy feet, my fingers burn.
I touch the markers of our buried children,
My cup spilled, the glass clear, I beg to learn.
The wine dark fluid rills into the green
Earth, staining the strewn seeds of the unborn.
A sour black bottled rage, my spleen envenomed,
Cries for all children deprived of their form.
Now teach us each to walk on and listen
To the grass growing, for it does not mourn.
Haunt us with the memory of the fire.
Remember us thus: our faces ashen,
We who have been through this and did not burn.
A garden of statues in the place of our pyre.

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