How can one person create a sound among
a hundred million voices? Their faces betray
their desperation and their words do not ring
clear. There is no clarity, all is chaos, all is a
clattering din. No spaces, no gaps, no points
of calm to be found among all that is ablaze,
burning terribly, edging away the pathos of the
night. There is no night. There is only a rushing,
a tumble of footsteps clomping upwards, of slush
and muddy impatience, of trampling what is left
of the earth. The un-beautiful simplicity of brute
survival, of breathing the cold air still, of hooded
eyes with pupils narrowed in their sockets. They
see only one thing: what is ahead of them, and
what is ahead of them yet. They march because
they have always been marching. There are so
many stories that they become anonymous -
every plea a useless artifact to discard and forget.

Labels: poetry