Those We Should Not Sing For

They all drowned in the river that we made—

From the banks to the roofs we raised the level

To match their bitter wrath;

Overflowing with the color that

Pronounced my certain fear, lustful trembling:

Red, red, was the color of the river.

Sticky and thick, as it curved around the trees,

Suffocating them with a thousand years

Of anguish—we bled for it, yes—

So all the leaves fell,

Diving into the veins of pain.

Oh, miserere, where did you go?

As we sit here, huddled, protected by goosebumps,

Wielding the strength of the last, last song,

When the choir has fallen dead,

When the last sound is the echo of a head hitting floor,

The strained gasp for stolen air—

We’re weeping for the love that would not come,

This tower of hunger, deprived of virtue;

Doctor, do you see this?

Father, do you not see this?

The stone, cold and unrelenting.

We’re killing flowers because we can’t kill trees.

We’re screaming because we can’t sing.

Deliver us from delivering vengeance!

How I can already see the hot, barren plain,

The dry, crusted earth, with the lone, crooked tree remaining.

To those we should not sing for, kill us now—

Stab us—and make this world run with

Hateful blood and cruel blood as one.

Ha, the joyous celebration that will be!

I’ll fling my arms wide open, yelling, screeching,

As my chest bursts with the heart of the devil, unleashed!

My cries of fury will bury the mountains

And shatter every bone of every child, ever.

Our skewered heads will line all the streets,

Making faces at the pale ghosts remaining.

Oh, miserere, how could you let me be?