Skins on bones
upstaged the ash pile
in a damp narrow hut,
crouched before their executioners.
They had no tears
even though they tried to weep.
They did not bleed, over the weeks.
They were smoked without washing.
On the cusp of death, they sang:
let anthem rain
in the Promised Land!
Let anthem rain
where we come to sing
our songs of redemption.
Let anthem rain!
History is tardy but the ground
is a faithful witness.
This history will not be repeated,
memories restless where ashes wail.
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Comments about this poem (Ashes by Buxton Shippy )
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