Saturday, February 27, 2010

The parade

I stood on the edge,
trying not to be noticed by those who would never notice me anyway.
I saw the parade,
the body carried through
covered and held in such esteem.
And I thought of all the bodies
that lay strewn by the way-side.
Limbs askew and insides outside.
These were women and children.
Children and the elderly.
The elderly and babies.
And their death and life are taken so lightly
yet a country stands still for this man,
this healthy well armed man
came on a plane to do his country proud
maiming and raping,
raping and killing,
killing and looting.
Am I supposed to be sorry
that your death machine was shot out of the sky
and a few of your bloodless men
were allowed to join the fate of thousands of mine?
Do not ask that I remember their families
waiting for them to come home this Christmas
with tales of starving 'skinnies'
of how shocked they were that emaciated bodies
could still hold so much blood.
Tales of how heroic they were fighting against an ill equipped man
forcing him to watch as they raped his daughter and shot his son.
Symapthy for this I simply have none.
It has all been used up for my land bereft of it's keepers.
I wonder why we need reminding how little we mean.
How keen you are to illustrate that we have died and you will live.
You've tried so hard to teach us,
does it seem we still have much to learn?
How many more lessons have you got
before we lose our hard-headedness at the hands of your defilement?
When do you suppose we will uncurl and brighten?
You've worked so hard and yet you do not tire.
We must unbend.
And I must stand behind your coffin.
I must watch the parade and feel the measure of your high esteem.
I cannot think of all those who are left uncovered,
who are no longer attached
It is you that matters.
Because in death you live.
And we just die.

Nimo Hussein
copyright 2010

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