Bones upon bones, upon bones, upon bones,
Strewn across the land
where swords unsheathed have sprouted –
are sprouting – like flowers
‘Not one stone will be left a top of another
all will be thrown down’
Blindness, upon the hour of thy visitation.
When the earth laments
it spews up limbs
like slowly dropping, stubborn, thick, viscous tears.
‘Not one stone.’
What, one stone?
These are not the dead
They are the dying
They are our dying
Covered in dust but refusing submersion
They are the flesh you ask us to leave
That with fine sinews cleave onto our resurrecting
emerging from our tarrying
unclothed and Spirit-less.
‘All will be thrown down’
Bones upon bones indeed,
Bones upon bones in need
Called away but staying slain
With spades harvesting the swords
Harvesting death from death.
‘Not one stone’
© Denis Adide 2014
“Let the dead bury their own dead…”