when the sculptor dies, don’t we all?

The media is full of shocking reports- innocent people are tortured everyday. Some as political prisoners, some as victims of abuse in their own homes. A recent story about a sculptor who was tortured added to the millions of stories of people trapped in the wrong place at the wrong moment in history.This poem is not the voice of the sculptor who died, but the collective voice of the creative innocents lost in craft and confronted suddenly with the horror of reality disguised as power, prowess, some -ism…

.

There are a thousand women sleeping in stone

Their tears are trapped and voices muffled

Sometimes I hear them singing, not sirens like you think,

But sweet sad voices, not children, but human.

 

I take them out, the women, I carry them on my shoulders

And tell their stories to the people who like to listen

There are some people at the door.

Wait!

 

For a moment the women wail

All my life  undone, nothing to be done,

I can make nothing right, fix nothing, patch up nothing.

My hands are flailing, drowning, my legs get in each others’ way.

 

I could be a puppet.

I look like a fool.

Drooling.

Dead.

 

Hills falling off fingers, rivers vomiting seas,

Hair shaking loose the wind, eyes being saved

For the final cut.

Sculptors reversed,  the country in my room.

 

© neelthemuse,2012

 

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