Of Masses

Out, under ill known scrapes of sand and waste,
Beyond parched wâdis heated winds have chased.
Where the very light bears grit more felt than seen,
And every line of sight sees nothing green.
There sited underneath the sand and stones,
There, lie the bones.

As mark on mark beat certain pace to mold
A canvas or the marble worked of old,
Each bone has bled its mark upon this land,
Each owner of them marking the heart of man.
A gorgèd evil work beneath the stones,
This freight of bones.

They often knelt together, some in hand,
At edge their looming sepulcher in sand;
Came thumps and weeping terror to each line,
And next and next ran butchery malign,
Staccato shots wrung blood and wretched moans
Among the stones.

It's now—behind he stands to make the rend,
In front wide eyed enormity of end,
Denying and despairing—frantic seek
My Child—my Love—my God—will no one speak!
From mouths where choking sand rolls over bones,
Fade smothered groans.

In loved or known or kin or passers-by,
At every mark are fewer who defy;
Below the masquerade is rage inflamed to grow,
Submission taut and waiting, as a bow.
And number these as stretch the desert stones,
These livid stones.

This calcined call rolls wave to every ear
For all of them and some of us to hear,
And heed a plea to go in turn to rend,
To speak then for the slaughtered, though eloquent their end,
And lay some honored dead for sake of bones.
To join the bones.

In this they see heroic living proved;
What moved a will be naught by that it moved.
An honest cry from souls no longer mute,
Devout to restive bones the living lift salute
To honor he, Avenger of the Bones.
In quiet tones.

   posted by Stephen at 10:34 PM | Plink