When our backs are turned,
when someone stares at us,
we feel them.
You who watched the killing, and did nothing,
still feel the eyes of those dead
on your bodies.
How many see you
as you pick a violet?
How many oak branches twist
into hands begging for help?
How many memories congeal
in the sun's evening blood?
O the unsung cradlesongs
in the dove's nightcries--
so many would have loved
their own stars in the night skies,
but now only the old well
can do it for them.
You did not murder,
but looked on, you,
who could have been changed
into light.
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© Michel Fingerhut 1996-2001 - document mis à jour le 23/02/2001 à 19h23m19s.
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