the walls
show wear marks of prayer’s hands
touching hands pressing for their dreams
of peace yet to come
the walls
show wear marks of prayer’s hands
touching hands pressing for their dreams
of peace yet to come
just like before
the hole was dug
perhaps it was
more of a trench
a mass grave
for the living
families
were herded in
beaten men
pregnant women
helpless children
all into this ghetto
sealed
with walls
wires
checkpoints
ships
and of course rules
for maintaining
social standards
everyone in
no one out
like every
grave
perhaps this is some foolish
childhood memory
but
within each memory
lies some strand of truth
i speak to you of moon weavers
few outside these walls
know of them
so you must listen carefully
and heed my words this night
at the edge of the forest
in the small meadow
where the fog crawls
along the ground
are the spirits of warriors
the ancient ones
they spin silver threads
into braids of tears
placed upon our doorsteps
as gifts and protection
for those of us
who should own the land
if you must walk at night
you must not let a moon weaver
pass through your body
for if you do
you will feel
the sorrow of a hundred years
ancestors will appear before you
their death will feel like your death
the slaughter and rape
of those who loved this place
bathed in fire while they slept
ran down by horses
branded with bayonets
such visions have driven some mad
so beware my friend
for what you see
may be
your own history
or
mine
the air in here is thick
with the memories of a thousand souls
death covers the floor and walls
small cracks here and there
have the smell of blood
recalling the tortured human beast
that waged war here
and is waging war
again
so
near to here
in an arena
without walls
for the entertainment
of new generals
and rulers
of
the
empire
of
greed