Srebrenica

 

I mourn for pain that's not mine,

That I can't ever understand.

​

→ Mladić rotting in The Hague,

→ Ruling his own trial,

is this done?

 

Eight thousand dead.

 

I broke inside. I've yet to cry

The raw

     brutality

     nation,

     Jesus and Jihad,

     Genocide said so many times it

          no longer sounds like a word,

but still we are all broken

 

I write my little poems to escape the truth that we are dirt

And yet it faces me with unforeseen ferocity in that enclave

I think of:

→ rows of white tombstones

→ Bits of bodies and their clothes in body bags.

There’s many a body I’ve put in a body bag

but they've all been whole,

and I am broken,

diminished by the enormity of evil

 

For the survivors, there may never be anything approaching justice.

     Apologies: inadequate.

          Sentencing: inadequate.

(In some quarters, denialism reigns as kings).

 

One thing remains: this Srebrenica diminishes us all.

 

ⓒ 'Moth 2020-2024