OTHERS
have already rolled their mindbodies
through the blud of war
raged, pleaded,
reasoned,
died, demonstrated
the distortion,
written persuasively
of what they saw
(that all war is fratricide),
of what they knew
(that all killing is conquest)—
how clever they seemed,
how right they were! are!
What can I say
through the glut of words
in my little voice
that won't get lost
on furious winds
already overburdened
with the stench of bodies
torn open?
No shout, no cry,
resonates
in the void of inattention,
the chamber of confusion;
only drums
provide a rhythm that anyone
can dance to;
only drums,
like the drums in our chests,
can beat out the symbols
that clash with the calm words
of quiet minds.