All but gentle wind
Has died in this forest before us.
But even that soft whisper,
Tells the murderous screams of what was.
The carnal eyes
Wander past the bed of crippled leaves;
No smell or sight
Of a genocide of bodies.
But what flows through the trees —
What makes up the ground —
Is the blood of warriors,
Who’s screams will never sound.
Their dying words
Will brush softly past your ears,
And all at once,
Their bellows you will hear.
The fingertips of fear,
Will suffer you a haunting;
Your tongue will lose it’s taste,
And a silence will form the daunting.
May 13, 2011