Speaking out

The dead have silent teeth and empty throats,

they have no voice with which to speak, to cry

of all the horrors they have seen and been and

known; to call for justice, freedom from the

power of those who kill to claim what is not

theirs, the land of others, who suffocate children

in waves of dust and shredded metal moments,

where blood and tears and destiny are driven

deep into the waiting earth; dressing broken

fragments of their lives, their souls, their

hearts, that costuming of evil which war does

primp and posture into place, for those who

are the victims, for those who cannot speak,

and for whom the only hope can be for others,

that their throats are not empty, their teeth

are not silent, their words are not crushed

beneath the boot of evil and injustice and

military might, and that in the darkened

quietness of this awful, suppurating wound,

their only hope is that the voices of the living

will be speaking out for those who lie strewn,

fleshed like scattered crops, in that harvest

which bleeds and grieves and slowly seeds

the fields of future justice in aching Palestine.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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