Lamentations of the Dead

Why do we pretend to be numb?

That normal has no definition, except for
what we see before us every day.
Is it normal?

The constant heat of hate bubbling,
boiling to the brim of everyone’s
bottled water.
Bought, sold and stamped with
the seal of approval from
the poisoned rivers to the shrinking
lakes.

We pretend not to see it.
We pretend we are numb.

Our silence was only ever a dream for
those others.
The people that would control us with
their invisible hand.
With the ever-present, all seeing, all knowing
power of ones and zeroes.
Should we be forgiven for accepting the idea
that we are secure, safe?
Without our privacy.

Guilty on sight, innocent never.
This is us. This is how they see us.

And when we rise,
we rise up!
Until we tower over every tower,
bring shade to the slowly cooking
bodies of the never neutral bystanders.
Our towers bring shadows to the dying.

What we used to think,
what we whisper,
what we share amongst ourselves,
have always become screams.
Lamentations of the dead.
Our dead.

When did we become so numb
to the ever-present normal
of our mutual destruction?
Were we ever so quiet?
Were we ever so weak?

They keep calling us derogatory names.
Nameless. Invisible.
Shameless. Worthless.
But we tower over the tallest towers,
no wind can shake us down, for we
were the ones that built these structures.

Not them. They have no skills.
The money hungry, slave owners are the real nameless.

Their lives are invisible to us.

Because against us, they are powerless.
And the poison that keeps us sedated,
seeps into their veins too.
They are a dying group.

Us?
We are meant to survive,
because we have survived this long.
We serve to plant our seeds within
the centers of every grain of sand.
The deserts will stop spreading then.

And when we finally stop boiling,
the rivulets of our blood
will serve to nourish those seeds.

But they will not take root,
will never bear us fruit.
Not until the lamentations of our dead
rise out of the dungeons.
Rise out of the catacombs.
Rise from the dust,
rise from the seas.
Rise from the streets.
Tell us their stories,
show us their struggles.
Their struggles are our struggles.

Would we pretend that we are still numb,
when the history of silence
is finally shattered?

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