Sunday, August 7, 2016
It seems that all these streets are paved
To hide from sight the bottomless graves
Of the hands that laid these stones
And the hands that defended their homes;
These towers soar over both sets of skulls and bones!
It seems the towers try to flee,
Seek refuge in infinities,
Climbing because they can't atone
For the sins of their foundation stones.
It seems we walk these streets so fast
Because we fear their silent past
Which lingers still around every stone
Laid by hand of skin and bone.
We close imagination tight,
And limit it to simple sight,
And so we rarely hear or feel
The ghosts beneath the pavement,
Real! And so we rarely touch or smell
The timeless tolling of the bell,
Resounding through the pavement stones
The silent song of skulls and bones,
Flying between the towers high,
History that does not die.
The cosmic conscience is resolved!
History shall be absolved.
Let your imagination open,
Like one who has awoken,
And pause upon the pavement stones
And think about the skulls and bones,
And all the past we walk upon,
And of the earth to which we belong.
Those skulls and bones are the same as ours,
A difference of mere measurable hours --
Think of the hands that paved these streets,
Of the murderous history underneath,
Which buried its builders just the same,
Often the streets bear the murderers' name.
Be deafened not by misery,
But hear our absolution's plea:
Live with those who lie beneath,
We are as fish upon a reef.
Do not let their memory die,
We are as birds within the sky.