Another old poem:
you talk about tragedy in cold edged words
time erodes feeling and erases pain
quietly infusing history into agony
pacing silently up and down to talk of death
you remove the horror with spidersilk words
and remake the past with a theory
screams lie dead behind your voice
rustling paper covers torment
with dry cough
with dry words
and the soft voice’s murmur of disaster
silence stuns us as we sit
hear your voice unfolding violence
blood is bleached in black and white
but pain can still tear us
you talk about history with knife edged words
that slash and draw no blood
a judgement passed on
a lesson taught
about the voiceless dead
whose story you wrap in loaded words
a stone cast against the State.
