Will They?

Will they give us bread
Mother?
The men digging.
Is mud cake?
Premature snow icing?
I’m not smiling anymore 
My daughter has no petticoats 
to fold
No dresses to fly with dance 

The farm is burnt 
Fields reluctantly open 
And fill with families 
Like ours
Though they are almost still
They wave above their heads 
From the damp grave
The single long grass 
And the carnival flower 
Hoping to attract your attention 
But our voices will be patted down 
With the flat side of a spade.’
And we will be silenced forever.

 

 

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Malcolm Paul 
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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