There are no children playing in the garden
but their shadows still carry stones up the backyard steps.
Their spirits still stumble and fall;
a history of horrors haunted by fog and mist
and hand-print stained walls.
Our palms are dirty with dust,
with the remnants of a past
whose past-times included genocide
and watching prisoners fly like parachutes
splayed open with despair,
landing on their own broken faith,
drowning in a river of blind belief
in deathly charisma.
There are no ghosts here.
It is too dark for even the dead.
There is no one left to blame.
Hate is too deeply ingrained in every wall.
We press flat hands against gas chamber doors.
We are begging of you, forgive us.
It was never our chosen fate
to be a part of a people
that allowed any of this to happen in the first place.
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