Prologue
She lights a match
Who's there
She asks the silent uniform of dark
Is that you, father
Holding a gun to my temple?
Who taught you to hate
So perfectly?
Who trained you to kill so well?
The future of your blood
Floods the floors of your great atriums
I haven’t seen the sun
under the shadow
of your dead ancestors
I walk alone
between the murderers
And the massacred victims
Both hurt no more
In this holocaust
Built by common men
Who taught you to fear ?
Your hands are so cold
Like golden coins
Cut the cord
I forgive you
Afterword
The match flies across the darkroom
Illuminating the faces on the walls
As it falls to the ground
Fire
... history must die
Self portrait
9 comments:
Who taught you to hate
So perfectly?....It is such a shame that I can relate to this poem with the same questions...murder comes in many forms...bleeding bloodless and emotional crime scene...cut the chord...I forgive you...yes! Because it is the only way that history seemingly can die~ So good to read you again, love~
Exquisite!!!
This is amazing
Perfect. You have to be taught how to hate. You must learn shame. You must be acclimatized to the dark.
Thank you , darlings, it was a hard one, I have difficult time reading it, but it required to be written.
Thank you, my love, yes, they usually leave that inheritance, whatever develops in that darkroom like a photograph of their reflections in us, we need not be the expected copy.
I like your poem buried in history and hatred awakened out of a great loss!
Goodness, it's that bad, isn't it :) Kisses Gloria
history is always dead - past is not alive and not real... our weak mind tries to make past alive and make changes,,, be strong and leave the past - a man who cannot leave past is no man !!!
You are right, Shiv
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