hands, feet drumming on ribs, the ground,
the mouths of pots and guns beckon;
the wind, the clouds, are the sight of sound
to the deaf, the foreign, the prisoner.
This bridge is the harp hung across
the tears of our sorrow. Each life
must know this and it has unstrung us.
The song that must be found, cannot;
we sing in no tongue, no language—
our words are incantations, they harm those who
do not know the melody—it’s magic—
and only fools ask the meaning.
These whore masters who bid us sing
do not hear our anger. It crashes
upon the shore a great wave of vengeance.
If we forget, let our tongues be like the wave—
ever licking, never drinking; let water be salt
and tears our fountains; if we forget,
make our bed from thorns, crowns for our
children to wear, though they be but mirrors
of our pain. We who sing hear not the song
that is sung—take comfort in what is missing.

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