They cry in my dreams, the lost ones:
the boy who has no face,
the old man, slumped by the roadside,
the young girl, beaten, raped;
the homeless ones in doorways,
newspapers round their knees,
and the faces of hopeless fathers,
watching--as their last child dies.
Though the sounds of their words come garbled,
the pain comes--anguished, clear,
and I toss on my bed of nightmare,
both hands pressed to my ears;
or I reach out my arms to comfort--
but they crumble at my touch
like burnt, charred-paper people
who have been touched too much.
Cry on, cry on, dark voices!
till the earth becomes one cry--
and the white moon shatters like crystal,
the stars melt in the sky.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie