Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Just what are eight thousand skulls
with small holes in the back
pile them up in a mound now
in your mind
as you do
let them whisper to you
listen to them speaking with each other
as they died
sons, fathers, brothers uncles,
old grandfathers
what do eight thousand skulls with small holes in the back
piled high look like
do they speak in agonizing fear
of the woman they can not protect
of their daughters
held down
sobbing
raped and bleeding
children clinging
what is a terrorist
cold blooded killers
mad men
long trenches ready
how easily it all slips away
beneath the dark soil

This reminds me of:

Grass
BY CARL SANDBURG

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.

genocide is is a tough subject but you've dealt with as poetically as one could be expected, with agonizing questions....still shocks the soul...man's inhumanity to man