The Voices DieThe voices die which are the children lost: we hear them and don't answer; when they cry, our thoughts are silent; when they need us most, we mutter, stop, and dully turn away. So everything that's mean they summon up; love's always much too far - beyond our reach - unless our conscience can give fear the slip and learn that vengeance does not wisdom teach. Oh, how our rage has taught us just how cheap the lives of Afghan infants have become - invisible, then silent, dead: the deep foundation of our sin, our stumblingstone. |
This poem is a bitter parody of Andrew Motion's The Voices Live, commissioned by the BBC for the Westminster Abbey memorial service for the British dead in the US attacks of 11 September, 2001. —I.H.
Gay Noses (and other queer appendages)
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Ink Amera |
(C) David 1/9/2007 |
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