Dialect

I listen to the breeze for answers

to this incessant vengeance from backyard to border –

anger that festers with ferocity

against attempts to annihilate the Spirit;

attempts that lay bloody and strewn across the centuries,

enshrouded in promises

– of peace and atrocities never to be repeated.

Yet, as memories fade,

the graves insidiously multiply,

those words buried to rot in the earth with generations passed.

Those words of peace –

doomed as they were formed

from the interpretation of texts bound with indoctrination,

– religious dyslexia.

Those words of peace –

dipped into wells of black,

stick on the tongues of those

whose foreheads and palms perspire

with revenge, fear and the anticipation of expanding power.

Those words of peace composing sentences of death,

dialects from ignorance,

are now being rejected

by those who listen to the breeze

and hear the mournful cries from the graves

of those who had no words,

only tears.

By Julie Stephenson

Of war…..