'Requiem for the Living'
Where blood-soaked clothes
Embrace the earth in fear;
Where lifeless faces of children
Scream silently into pillows of debris;
Where a brother cradles her limp body,
Threatening his sister to wake up again;
Where strangers drag away a numb father
From the rubble-grave of his family;
Where tears and dust mingle unashamed
Beneath hollow eyes staring into emptiness;
Where the search for familiar warmth,
Forces the orphan to find comfort in alien arms;
Where a carefree laugh in the streets
Sounds more unnatural than a despairing cry;
Where skies are less of shining blues,
And more of choking fumes;
In such swirling agony,
Dwells lowly life not important enough to rescue,
Faltering hearts not worthy enough to help,
Desperate pleas well ignored.
But they are valuable, we know,
In their deservingly different way
As priceless fuel for debates,
Precious fodder for ineffectual sympathy,
Treasured images for poetry.
They prove a fertile land for opinions
Which flourish wisely high and wide,
Yet is too barren for peace,
Incapable of remedy and relief.
This plight, though, you see,
Is far from unique.
For the world such suffers
In pockets spread all over,
All sharing the essence
Of humanity gone to rot.
Helpless as we call ourselves,
We are indeed in dire need of aid;
For our own inability to act
Is massacring innocent smiles,
And murdering our identity
As beings most aware.
We who speak of the old savage times,
Have now bred barbarism within our civility,
Have poisoned the very meadows,
Which we had forcefully nurtured.
The east, the west, the south, the north:
Hatred knows no directions
As it seeps and spreads,
Cleaving through homes in a relentless flow.
But there lies a bright hope still,
As reason decrees
That this bitterness shall doubtless end.
For when the enmity has devoured all in its path,
It shall have no choice but to consume itself,
Leaving behind nothing but a wasteland.
All that shall remain will be indifference:
The most potent instrument
Of our annihilation.
Perhaps then in the late hour shall we realise
That tyrants are not that easy to recognise.
For the greatest oppressors are the ones
Who quietly watch the misery unfold.
The only solace for the end,
Is when mere ruins remain,
The weight of the silence
Shall bury our carrion shame.