Rwanda's Rue
You tribed against meAnd my family and friends:
You machetéed
Them to their ends
But I was spared
To remember
The images
Of dismember.
I didn't cry
Because there was no one
There to hold me;
To call me brother or son
And to take away
Just some of the weight
Of these strokes
Of hate.
I wasn't caught;
I was in the bush
And, in spite of these neighbours knowing me,
Their rush
Passed me by.
I was eight then and now;
Although I have twenty-three years
My brow
Has stayed there
On that afternoon
Of thinking:
My turn soon.
My turn did not come
On that forsake;
But has come ever since
With every wake.
13:09, Thu. 09/04/2009.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 934 times
Written on 2009-05-22 at 12:25
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