willow moon pearce

Rookie - 0 Points (October 1951 / London, UK)

Morning In Rwanda. - Poem by willow moon pearce

I sit sharpening my machete
With a faint ring of steel on steel
The blade has been worn down
With a passion of sharpness.

Wooden handle, black with sweat and old blood
Chipped but serviceable.
I try hard not to remember
The last time steel bit bone
The last time the machete and I killed.

Shrill screaming, accusations and decades
Of unforgiving hate
A lot of it made up by the last minister in power.
Yet, the effect being the same.
Your friend becomes your enemy.
Death being the answer.

I cannot sleep at night
The memories of my actions
And screams of terror,
Keep me up, sweating in panic and self loathing.
This nightmare is shared amongst my friends
All who killed for what they believed in.

I have blood on my hands
That I cannot wash off
And the rest of my life
To remember the hate, terror and murder
That I helped inflict that night.


Comments about Morning In Rwanda. by willow moon pearce

  • (7/13/2006 8:01:00 PM)


    Very interesting write. Rwanda was truly a sad situation. Blame was cast in several directions, at once. The question is...will we be able to recognize it sooner the next time? Sadly...I think not. Self blame really does no one any good...I assume that you are stepping into another's shoes when you write this...and you do it very well...possessing a great deal of empathy, I think. Very interesting perspective!
    Hugs,
    Dee
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  • (5/7/2006 11:17:00 AM)


    I often wonder what divides the action from the person, or whether the person becomes the action sometimes, then under a different light they can really see what part they had played and how it had effected another,
    I think that if you truely repent for your actions openly or other-wise then this can be the first step to a much greater road,
    But if we are to keep on with such actions after knowing what we do is wrong, then this is
    a foolishness action that can bear no true reward
    Love Duncan
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  • Brian Dorn (5/7/2006 11:00:00 AM)


    Willow, how does someone ever clear their conscience of such atrocities. It's difficult to even imagine what man (even children) can inflict on one another... and for what? Excellent write.
    Brian
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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 7, 2006

Poem Edited: Sunday, June 10, 2012


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