Death’s Consignment Note

‘Death’s Consignment Note’

The lorry’s door is open,

and night

stacks the black bags

like unanswered case files,

one upon another.

A mother,

with two empty hands,

looks into the cold mouth of metal,

and a father

repeats the name

so often under his breath

that his voice

turns to weeping.

You kill us,

but for how long,

when every name

from beneath the earth

grows tall again?

A poppy

through this very darkness

finds its own way,

and a clenched fist

from among the flowers

emerges,

not from hatred,

but from a right.

We want the right to choose,

the right to breathe,

the right to laugh in the street

without a gun’s permission.

Your bullets

will run out,

but grief

will not end,

and this very grief

one day

will open every lock.

How did you arrive

at this point,

where death,

like merchandise,

is given a consignment note

and dispatched to oblivion?

Blood

will not stay silent;

blood boils

and drives truth

out

from behind the wall.

If today

smoke rises from our eyes,

tomorrow

it will rise from your homes,

not for revenge,

but by the law of life:

no nation

ends

in a black bag.

Freedom

is near,

like a morning

that, despite every wound,

at last

comes.