As you slaughter us, we dance in the fields.
We throw our arms in the air in ecstasy.
You mow us down.
Like cattle, like grass,
we fall at your feet.
We sing as we meet our creator.
We lie in heaps, brother over brother,
neighbor over neighbor,
father over son.
Snow gathers on our lips.
Frost darkens our skin.
In memory we are immortal.
We haunt your children and grandchildren.
They tug their mothers’ sleeves and ask “Why?”
There is no answer
because there is no why.
In memory we are immortal.
Every generation must learn
your deeds are branded on their foreheads,
an eternal stain.
They do not speak of you, except in secret.
Children overhear and are ashamed.
Your blood runs through their veins,
your name a curse on their lips.
© Scriptor Obscura and Scriptor Obscura Writes, All Rights Reserved.
*Originally written January 2012. Linked to Trifecta with permission.
