Here they come, the mourners Along the streets of Jaroujiji, no stranger to slaughter. They are black and slow, and silent too: No joy through tears, No second line for them, But the gagging, unspeakable Stab of child death, With its thousands of Tiny shrouds, And the women from the hills have made paper children And strung them, souls, on a red rope, stretching for blocks Where they flutter and twist. Their shadows dance on the cracked sidewalks of Eureka, Over the dead leaves To the door of the agent, Where the procession halts, Stands, silent, accusing, And stares down at the whole murderous system.
Ellen Taylor
This article appears in ‘Doing its Part’.