in the dead of night,
like some smuggler's load.
Lights dimmed, the curtains drawn:
these are the hidden.
Men in dark uniforms,
bear coffins with short shuffling steps,
as if afraid to draw attention.
If no one hears, and no one sees,
should we just pretend that no one's died?
the shrieks of women.
mothers, wives, and daughters,
subsided into whimpers.
A private grief not shared, but hidden.
Fathers, husbands, and sons,
eyes tearing, mouth their silent curses,
as reticence turns to rage.
An anger perfected in the quiet of their beings.
Who would venture that what they now feel is pride?
These are our best, we say.
They gave all, and should be honored.
But what we do not see, we cannot mourn.
They are secreted away, as if in shame.
Who do they protect when hidden?
© C David Sinex (2004)
Topic(s) of this poem: grief , mother, war, daughters
Form: Free Verse
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.