Lorraine Borgolini

06-01-2012

GULAG

You and I are partners
We tap on the wall of all souls
 
Extracting hope from threads of bare hands
And broken hearts
 
The grim sardonic faces of unloved men
Exacted their loss on us
 
Joined in purgatory  we wait.
 
Let us speak plainly men of myth making
 
Your fields are wastelands
Of crops grown in dark cold minds
 
Your minions built roads of carnage
From Carthage to Stalingrad
 
Your crusades will not be undone
Leaving bones and wreckage
 
Rudiments of hate.
 
Be still now be quiet
We have a story to tell
A mocking allegory
 
You will come to grapple with 
Its mask of indemnity
 
Victims stand before us row upon row
Squandering life in demonic servitude
 
A tacky exchange between banal beasts of prey
And men with plain brown eyes
 
With the body stripped of dignity
And the mind wrenched from pride
Reconciling that fate is inextricable
 
The metaphor of our resistance
A wall of extinction
 
To whom do we appeal?
 
The hand slaps cold
It’s tempest a poison pill under the skin
 
Wrestling with sirens of unrest 
And faltering images
 
We tangle up in our own spiritual pest
Purging religious icons
We called home
 
There is a blank face on God
 
We feel its rancorous form
In dark corners of the room
 
What is left to postulate?
 
Death nips the onerous day
In a field almost barren
 
The beauty of its bleakness
Sublime and so impervious
 
Rising cascades of wild fauna
Bring redemption of knowing life is
A demeanor beyond one’s self
 
We stand will transformed
A soliloquy of transgressions
Reckoning with reason
 
At this moment you and I know
The unequivocal truth
 
That heinous acts of impious men can never restrain
The one raw moment of need  to tap

« What is held captive may never be confined »


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