DO NOT WEEP FOR THE DEAD
Do not weep for the dead,
They do but sleep. See?
See. They float on a river of dreams,
gently rocked by ripples and currents.
Warmed by sun, cooled by zephyrs.
Do not even weep for their lost futures.
For their future is peace. And
when they awake, it will surely be to you.
Weep now for the sisters, leafing sadly through albums.
Touching a face, here and there.
Weep for the mothers, who hold their empty bellies.
Rocking with horror, a life unraveled.
Weep for the fathers, lips bitten through in inchoate rage.
Weep for the brothers, with no one left to tease.
Weep for the grandparents, dreams of second carings shattered.
Weep for the friends, struck suddenly dumb.
Weep for family celebrations with one chair always empty.
Weep for all who are
mesmerised by pictures,
strangled by sirens,
crying in bathrooms,
staring into emptiness,
fearful for the children,
losing perception,
uncomprehending,
casting this way and that,
uncertain,
picking flowers
in case it mattters.
Do not weep for the dead.
They would not wish it.
Think on them, because
you know it is true.
Weep now for the living.
The left behind.
Bind their wounds.
Listen in silence.
And weep for the world.
Wash it clean. And cleaner, still.
Make that their memorial.
And let it stand forever.
Well, This Is What I Think 