ROSES AGAIN
January 2, 2007
© Fred Dumpling. Redistribution is prohibited.
It's the image of roses again, red roses
thorned and blooming where the bodies fell,
their vines weaving the ivory that
can't separate to be counted and known.
It repeats, deadly, with each falling night,
each curtain of darkness to shroud the seeding
of a garden.
There will be roses here tomorrow.
This is the park in which we played.
This is the school in which we learned.
The ground is covered with roses now,
and the stench is unbearable. (I breathe it in.)
We sit in the roses, and they prick at our flesh,
drawing reality from our veins to stain our legs,
but it's only real to us.
The rest of the world watches from afar.
This is the classroom in which we sat.
This is the chalkboard on which we wrote.
This is the lonely clock that counted
down to the inevitable ring of funeral bells.
It's the image of doves to us and our audience,
the image of anarchy to our oppressors
who will never be our masters.
Ah- the orchestra has arrived. A symphony begins.
Their music riddles our living flesh with holes,
and we fall to the ground, roses among roses.
We smile, and I find your hand with mine.
You're cold, and I'm burning. The roses are blooming.
Let us die holding hands, for the world is about to end.
We watched the stars fall from the sky and stood, singing in reply.
Now the funeral bells are ringing for those never to be witnessed,
while your living flesh is bleeding.
My living flesh is bleeding, and you're dying here with me.
It's raining on this rose garden. Shall I play a solo piece?
A dirge for all I never knew, muffled by stale air.
Another one for you and me, two corpses lying in blood.
Our hands are cold, our fingers numb,
but still entwined, won't separate to be counted or known.
Two more statistics for the other side.
Two more extras adding meat to the audiences' plate.
Two more who will never sink in, who will never be met,
who will not be remembered
but will never be owned.
Let us die holding hands, for the world is about to end.
We watched them tumble from the sky and stood, protesting the lie.
Fleeing could perhaps have saved us, but I wouldn't change a thing.
Now my frozen flesh is bleeding.
Your frozen flesh is bleeding, but at least, we can die free.