Many are your
daughters and sons
who patiently sit
through this wintry wilderness,
awaiting the end of the long night.
Elsewhere, their kin wander, homeless,
in many cities and towns
waiting to be let back into the paradise.
Some trickle out of the shadows
to the freedom beyond,
bearing tales of your wounds
and the muffled whisper of conspirators.
The wails of the victims of the gun
are a part of your profound sorrow,
the silence of the majority
your undying shame.
There may yet be hope
in the forbearance of your singed forests,
the tranquillity of your soiled streams,
and the loftiness of your weeping mountains
mute witness to your tragedy.