You'd think you'd hear them better,
the echoes in the pages.
The films from pictures reeling,
like birds from faded cages.
They record it wrong,
Somehow,
the sound and feeling gone,
Nothing now.
So rational the reasons,
the logic and the thought.
No pity for those suffering,
no malice for those who wrought
the horror in those pages
(now lost it's razor edge,
because it's just a faded ghost
from murky water dredged
As old as those who pledged
Never again)
We repeat ourselves,
make the same mistakes
see it in hindsight
even as the next bone breaks.
We distort it, it's unreal
just to hide the skeletons
so that we cannot feel.
If all were as it really is,
would we still teach History
to clueless kids?