Metal pipes run
the length of the ceiling, where
rusted nozzles hang
downwards, morning glories of death.
What a relief
you must have felt when
only water fell
from those flowers, mimicking
tears of joy
on far too many cheeks.
What an irony
that an element that cuts off air
and drowns many
gave you the right and permission
to breathe freely.

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.

A small child
in a mass grave. One
of millions, but this one
bore your name. Then
I cry. Pregnant mothers
and old men, brothers
and wives and daughters and all
I can think about
is this child that shared
a string of letters
with you. What if
What if
What if

The writing on the wall
is bold, shouting
out to you, black
upon white, a
deafening whisper behind
your eyeballs, drowning
your thoughts in words
you had left

behind. The writing
on the wall is
exultant, proclaiming
His glory- musical, singing
of his greatness- pleading,
for deliverance from all
that plagues or
may come

to them. You remember when us
became them. This
writing on every wall
grows stronger the further
you look up, for hands
cannot touch the corners
near the ceiling, and tears
have only faded the letters past
the waterline of sobbing

prayers. The intricate writing
on these walls belies
their strength, every one
two meters thick, and you
sit inside these walls and try to listen
to the voices you
have been asked to hear, and
wonder how around so
much strength you
feel so constricted, so helpless.