To paint the picture of the chaos
Would
Require a brush filled with blood colored
Rivers
Drawn on canvas of dark and bomb filled black

To know the anguish of the loss
Would
Require a mother held at gunpoint
A scared brave father taking out Imaginary
Money
From his pocket to pay for the lives of his family

To know of the horror
Would
Require a sharp needle pulling at the side of your
Lungs
In absolute silent running with the night
through the blankets of nameless, faceless bodies
Laying in a dance on the floor
As live ones stumbled on pass it

To know of the shierks
Would
Require your hands to be over your
Ears
But the sound of life dying still passed the
Barricades of your your hands
Shocking your eardrums
And stealing the little piece of life left in you

To tell of the genocide
Would
Require survivors
For lifeless bodies do not talk
Do not tell
But what if the lives one are living in another death
Not the one that killed your body
But that one that kills your soul


Who then will tell of the Genocide?