Dead children on the landscape

mouths open, terribly open,

in frozen screams.  In horror.

Mad parodies of a choir,

singing.



The boy is twisted, his legs

wrapped around eath other,

his hands crooked like claws

about to slash, strike out or dig through.

Eyes wide and filled with dirt

He is a solid immobile statue.

He joins the chorus.

His mouth is a round O

    of surprise as he sings

    this death song.



There are too many voices.

As conductor, I cannot manage

   so many

Of the screaming dead

and sobbing ghosts.

The bodies

were bad enough

Now the souls mourn the flesh

And each spirit is haunted

by dead children

and lovers and parents and enemies

of their own.

Each adding a voice

to this disharmony,

This beautiful, terrible

grinding of the bones to dust

	 of stones to sand

shrieking discord of fear and pain

my eardrums will burst

from the pressure of 

their voices

mourning.


		Kelly J. Cooper
		early a.m., 9/22/92
		All rights reserved