vibrant crimson, fragile grey
flesh and spirit divinely knit
but a breath away from the grave
formed from fresh earth-dust
but pressed with the image of God
an olive shoot warmed in summer’s gold
but swept away by a single frost
They do not cry when you cut them,
muted in life
But what gods are we,
to measure a soul by science,
or days, or sound or sight?
to the rending of the conscience,
for the voiceless will not speak.
But what men are we,
to stand by quietly, amid
the silent genocide?