Twenty five years ago,
On a day as frigid as this,
A bridge of high piers over murky waters,
And one narrow opening running downhill,
Was drowned in a spate of bullets,
One thousand two hundred aims,
And fifty five souls.
Then murderers ran amok,
Searching for the half dead,
Pumping holes in beating hearts.
A son dropped by the fire pot,
Bleeding a slash by the neck,
Then burnt in ambers bosom close,
And charred in a memoir stone,
That held his father’s name too.
Corpses were piled in an armored truck,
Kicked and hurled as nameless counts,
Awaiting more of the breathing,
Who were again aimed to raise a score.
In chasing bullets and the falling dead,
A young man held the barrel to his chest,
Taking more bullets than his age,
Returned in body holes draped by a sheet.
Fifty five names are not just a count,
A headline written and forgotten in time.
Fifty five is two hundred seventy five,
Names living etched in forgotten smiles.
A shrill now exists by the humped bridge,
Relived in each of nine thousand one hundred twenty five days,
Cracking in grief of winter blood.
Sobs of child seared by ash,
Cries of a father searching his kid,
Who were buried side by side.
Do you hear their wailing shrill?