In service of a higher cause,
To please-appease a lesser god,
Employ the bullet or the cross,
A stream of blood upon the sod.
His hands were bolted together.
And lo the apex of creation,
Tortures, kills in endless need,
Lo the height of evolution,
Cold-cruel craving ever to feed.
His hands were bolted together.
This lad of raven curly locks,
Hoped to marry the girl next door.
Seized at three or four o'clock,
And by evening, he was no more.
His hands were bolted together.
Now his tresses matted crimson,
Broken limbs in stigmata steel,
His eyes shut to his grisly end,
A hell from those who cannot feel.
His hands were bolted together.
A son of Sunni, or of Sufi?
A Jewish lad? Or a Christian?
A bloody, rent, slender body,
An innocent-not yet a man.
His hands were bolted together.
Tarry still a moment longer.
Don't shut out this nightmare yet.
It is we who are the monster,
If pained we do not feel regret.
His hands were bolted together.
Bolted together.
Mourn for he.
Mourn for we.
1 comment:
This poem was written to exorcise a ghost in my soul. In case the narrative is not clear from the poem...let me add this. I saw some pictures displayed at Yale University some months ago about victims of violence in Iraq. It showed the bodies. The pictures were un-retouched and very powerful. One image will haunts me. A lad of maybe 15 lay dead, clearly beaten and abused. He lay dead with his hands literally bolted together! He was perfect, beautiful, and broken, his picture posted to remind passers-by...and I will never forget him, even though I don't know his name.
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