Who Will Cry This Day?
A hand resting upon the dust, tiny and young,
Pointing up to the gods, fingers so red and still,
A scorpion watching with raised poisonous tail.
Who will cry this day, mother no,
In the house by the bed , oh so red,
She would weep for the hand, but for dead.
Who will cry this day, father no,
In the field near the tree, oh so sad,
He could weep this day, but no.
A hand that was once used to dance,
Pointing to boys and laughing at last,
She was sweet, like a virgin Madonna.
First came the noise, whistling at the birds,
Pushing clouds away and dropping,
Then that pressure, so much and hot.
A head that turned never to respond,
Eyes that froze on the sun for last,
Legs who danced but not this dance.
Presidents smile and wear new war suits,
Ministers speak of freedom,
Citizens cheer and wave this day.
I will cry for a child this day?