Questions of who and why and where-
the fires burn, the ocean churns,
and we fall into the sea.
questions of ten thousand people dying:
was that really someone's brother?
bones at the bottom of the ocean-
nothing but heartless plate tectonics-
and fifty thousand people dying;
they are not,they never were you or me.

burning buildings and faceless hatred
only sleep in the shining cities.
they do not walk, ash-streaked
down crumbling streets.

But in the places where the bodies burn,
and where the young are kicked and the strangers spurned-
when the gaudy land in the west is falsely pretty,
then dare we wonder-
dare we shriek at how the oozing hatred churns?

Questions of stubborn peace and self-serving wars,
and questions whispered, dreamed,-and lost-
while ash is cleaned from hands behind closed doors...
and it is not,
it never was yours or mine.

On some tranquil shore where laughing lovers rest
and stare at the natives-try their best
to be politically correct-
or in some corpse-strewn waste where the mothers weep
and stare at the bodies' tortured sleep-
askew in death on golden sands-
and the ash-
the ash just clings to your hands;
dare we cry 'why us, too-not just them?'?
questions of distance and of blood,
and the fraility of men.

Burn your pity;
it comes and goes
-the waves-
and fate's cruel flow.

1/3/05