On a map I gaze at the intertwining blue lines.
Five blue lines that move in and out of each other.
Five blue lines swaying to their own rhythms and rhymes.
Greens, yellows, blues, browns, pinks and red,
The vibrant scarves of life that dot necks, heads, villages, towns, temples and fields
Now lie in tatters, faded, trampled underfoot and dead.
Where people once gathered, lived, farmed, worked, laughed and danced,
Lie used needles, shards of glass and bloodied rags.
And in the shadows, elusive brown paper bags are secretly passed.
A quick unmurmured exchange: you see it’s all in the eyes.
They seal the deal, nod in agreement and scurry away
He hurriedly stuffs the bag under his shirt and goes through his lists of lies.
Which one shall it be this time?
“It’s not mine, it’s my friend’s” had been used too many times.
Yet his lists of lies don’t hide the fact that he’s committing a crime.
“There are no jobs for the young,”a well dressed man on TV proclaims.
He dramatically sighs:“So they resort to this. Our hands are tied.”
But the blood-soaked, weeping fields can no longer be wrung
For they are saturated, sodden and squelchy with blood.
No matter how many times She weeps,
She and the others will never ever see the true colour of mud.
Viciously hacked in two,
Under sixty years ago by those in suits and a bespectacled fool.
How many dead? Til this day no one’s got a clue.
Severed, mutilated and betrayed by those She called her own,
The people driven mad with pain, cracked and turned on each other within.
They now call it “Displacement.”
Yet who’s to blame? Who feels it the most?
Only the faces and hearts carved from her flesh and bone.
On a map I gaze at the intertwining blue lines,
Five blue lines that move in and out of each other
Who are all
But out of time.