Читать книгу Hold Them Close - Sarah Agnew - Страница 11

1.

On a Paris street,

in a morning walk, they stop

to talk to the camera:

Papa, I am scared.

Of what, my child?

Of the angry people

and their angry guns—what if

they come back again?

Then we will lay more flowers,

my child; we will always

have more flowers.

2.

In a home Down Under,

on the way to slumber, they stop

for a pressing question:

Mum, what will happen

when there is no more room?

No more room for what,

my child? What if—

there is no more room for all

the bodies, to put them when

they need rest?

Then we will dig deeper,

my child, we will find

a way to go deeper still.

3.

In an ancient never ending story,

Ramah wails again; lamentation

covers the bodies, bomb-dust

and fire smoke, stifling cover, suffocation,

smother—

Rachels kneel unseen among the stones,

in the fallen shell-shocked ruins

of life made empty; Rachels

who will not be consoled, refuse

flowers for the burden grief will lay

upon them, must lay within

them, deeper, so much

deeper than humans ought to dig.

There are no streets, no graves, no

children asking what if—

only Rachels’ weeping1 turning

dust to restless mud.

1. “A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” (Jeremiah 31:15; cf. also Matthew 2:18)