I wrote this for the anniversary of Hiroshima, but forgot to post it.
What minds are these that on numbed bodies lie,
to picture death by building, block, or mile,
as if the lives of every living thing,
from butterflies to babes at mothers’ breasts,
were not erased in that unholy fire
as Hiroshima and Nagasaki died.
Can they be buried in the lines of ink,
the dead contained where concepts’ limits lie,
as if time ceased to beat for them that day,
when minds measured the lives that could be saved.
Never a blessing had such a disguise,
to measure death and file it away.
Tell me the Niju Hibakusha rose,
to heal the scars that peace again could reign,
to banish horror after seventy years,
that shadowed stone might free their last remains.
Who truly loves that hears no silent screams,
their echoes undiminished by the time,
since two entire cities disappeared? ,
their loss described in incremental lines.