Sunday evening the scent
of war pervades all
Sunday evening the scent of war pervades all in this chilled wind that bites
deep, turns the bone to ice, flickers the candles that we hold huddled together
as much for warmth as in recognition and resignation of the moment.
Voices, sad voices, waver but bravely bring forth a song, a song of life, a song
of an earnest appeal for peace, a song to tell the world that, despite all that
has happened with the smell of the death of the burning towers still buried deep
within our souls, this is wrong, that a nation that lets loose the dam of misplaced
vengeance will later have to pay with the blood of its own
My eyes cast across the faces, grim skin pulled taut stretched over the skulls,
watery eyes weary, so weary, that once again we are here, once again we raise
our voices against a world gone mad crying allegiance to the angel of death instead
of the tree of life.
My eyes cast and plead for another to return the glance that says “I understand
how this rips deep into the sadness that walks with you at all
times,” that says “I stare out with you through your eyes and know
what moves you when such embers smolder deep within your heart.”
I am aware that we all do this. We all do this alone.
And we realize that our voices this night fall on stone ears. We all know this
When the song fades to echoes and memory, drums begin, and I watch a friend dance,
her long hair shimmering in the light of the remaining candles, as she tries
to lose herself in the rhythm, tries to allow all the pain to release, to fade,
to be forgotten, though we know that the torment we feel is closer than our breath,
more glued to our spirits than our heartbeats.
I turn and walk away. I do not feel the dance.
On the way to my car the angst intensifies, consumes me in an inferno of anguish
as my soul walks the flickering shadows with a sense of hopelessness and despair
which grows deeper with each hesitant step that I take.
My thoughts are broken by a piece of paper that moves across the street in a
tango with the cold wind and just as quickly disappears from my sight. I stop
to watch the whisper of the illusion of where it appeared and ponder the message
that it might have carried: perhaps one of hope, perhaps one to explain why such
horrors happen, or perhaps the page was merely blank, torn from the notebook
and lost before any thoughts were formed.
I cup my hands, blow on them in hope that removing the cold from my fingers can
thaw the ice that now blankets my emotions as I wonder if anyone will ever again
know the joy of roses when they bloom upon the page.
For I know that we all do this. We all do this alone.