A chime of bells swept through the streets
And sad black curtains clenched the homes
A swaying group of monks, their feet
Kept time on silent stone

The people watched from doors, from roofs
And kept their kids from making sound
Above the monks, fog swam in wind
And dripped, like tears, aground

But soon the realization hit:
What they loved had gone. The pain
Forced them out onto the sidewalk
To march along the lane

The grey of lonely sky above
Reflected the grey of pavement
And faintly buds of wails were like
The procession—nascent

But as the crowd of mourners swelled,
The monks absorbed into the ranks,
A chant, a hymn—no words within—
Grew loud in sound and angst

But missing from the solemn scene
Was a body, or a coffin
And among the calling marchers
No person’s name did blossom

For no one of flesh had died that day
No leader, redeemer, or saint
It was virtue that they’d buried
With actions corrupt and of hate

The river of people, all random and equal
Couldn’t hold the remorse for their loss
But it was too late, they knew in their souls
That they could never retrieve what they’d tossed

—

For our spirit never occupies
What we reserve for we alone
And throughout the nation, it detests
Inhumanity in it's home

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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