Crimson flowers bloom
In the blood-soaked folds of leather
Covers of torn bus seats.
The wolves feast on the silence.
The heart is silent.
The head is silent.
The cocks and the cunts
And the human beings attached to them
There is mutiny in the streets
But the voices are silent.
We spend money buying guns to kill time.
The hammer sparks. And still only silence.
The kings and messiahs live in the palace of illusions.
Lost in labyrinths of their own making.
While the ones with blood on their hands
Wash them clean in the silence.
The librarians are atheists.
The library of truth is silent.
The blindfold has been taken off Lady Liberty’s eyes
And used to tie a gag around her mouth.
She screams as her womb is penetrated
And all that comes out of her mouth is silence.
Metal scrapes against flesh and bone
And the sound of it is silence.
The rampage has lasted a hundred and seven days
But the hand that moves each second of time is silent.
Happiness is phosphorous.
The truth, cyanide.
The magicians send the shadows to hell
While real demons construct their paradise out of silence.
The wagging tongues are silent.
The pointing fingers are silent.
The champions of the weak and their jaundiced armies
The silence is so loud.
How many more December 16ths will it take to drown out this silence?
Or not enough.
~ Lester Fernandes