Tuesday, September 22, 2015

The Cherry

The morning air did not dare to breathe, the trees tried to hide and even the birds kept their songs in on that day, on that day.
The man from the kiosk who always clapped his hands and shouted happily was counting anything he could count, his face turned into his work.
Some people ate breakfast, watching non stop television, aching for live death. Others waited. Waited to die.

And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.

I went to the closed shutters, looked out onto the army tanks, row upon row, as they started to move. Each with a young man atop, like a cherry to the gods, his machine gun aimed.
We knew where they were going, we all knew. And we followed their path, watched and stored what we saw. We said We will not talk about this. We did not say anything.
I heard the sound of tear gas canisters exploding one by one and automatic gun fire scattering opinions yet still there was silence. I saw photographs of burnt bodies sat as charred husks and blood upon blood yet still people said there was nothing to see.

And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.

I saw the tanks return, and those young soldiers were somewhere we could not see them, faces of the underworld forever turned to the dead they had created.
Some people celebrated. Others were quiet. The talking ones were taken away. And they renamed everything to make it clean and right.
But the air saw, and the trees saw, and the birds saw and the wrong stayed alive.

And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.

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Lest we forget
Rabaa massacre 14th August 2013
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/August_2013_Rabaa_massacre

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