20 August 1998
Sepulchre*

The cold brittle bones of those long forgotten,
The silent cries that their dead fathers hear.
The hungry young mothers who just fed their babies
-the last of the hope left anywhere near.

The innocent wide eyes of the skeleton child,
Broken bones jutting out of his dirty, raw skin.
No time for the tears that his big sister cries,
Although he looks frail he is tough within.

Rotting boards and scrap metal, that is his home.
Warmth comes only from his mother's worn heart,
The beating of which, slowed and has stopped now.
Something is wrong, he wakes with a start.

No time for the tears that his big sister cries,
He digs mummy's grave, lays her down to rest.
The cold brittle bones of those long forgotten
Are what comes with the torture, all part of the test.

Time saves no-one, third world or first,
But in the darkness when we look to the moon
We know that death is, in some way, our reward.
The comfort and warmth of our sacred tomb.

End is always like the beginning,
Our tomb in the womb.

*a tomb or burial vault.