In the hall they wept.
A soft low howl
Alive as a wounded animal
Each breath full of effort
The tracery of the strings
Leading to the harp’s stilled question:
“Is suffering all we have left?”
A lone voice cries out:
Behold the consolation
It rises above the terror
Like a lonely bird
Flying bleakly through the sky.
The painful shriek
Of all that witnessed suffering
Rends the silent prayers devoid of meaning.
The pain cannot be staunched
The tears fall like memories
On the cold dark stones
The cobbled streets awash with blood.
The night takes flight
With monstrous fears
Of curfew and containment
Of capture and betrayal
As vigil skins alive each fretful soul.
In the coded messages
In the tapping on the darkened windows
In the weary wings
That lift sorrow above the shingled roofs
The pulse of life beats frailly.
Gar Jones: 2013/ January 2017