Beneath The Heather Fields
So glorious in the sun
No census there are counting
Tattooed numbered lives undone.
Whispered in the wind
Tortured suffering now still
Recorded in a vacuum
Upon the heathered hill.
Choosing not to see or hear
Selected mass of kindred souls
We each of us by knowing
Bare witness to their murdered toll
We'll rise again dear God
We are humanity diminished
We'll do you proud dear God
For when we left we had not finished
Beneath this field of weathered bones
Tho silent and unseen
Compassion of our souls arise
Gifting all that might have been.
Gather all the heather
Here upon the hill
Spread the seeds that carry home
The little left good will.
Corrine Schlessel @ 2015
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