From the Book of Lamentations in memory of those killed by another round of gun violence in Uvalde:
Bitterly she weeps in the night,
Her cheek wet with tears.
Uvalde bitterly weeps in the night
Her cheeks wet with tears.
We hear them, between gasps of pain and incomprehension the same words spoken by the lamenting witness:
My eyes are spent with tears,
My heart is in tumult,
My being melts away
Over the ruin of my poor people,
We are told to be quiet
Not to say anything to disturb those who threaten with their guns and their hatred
Both young and old.
My maidens and youths
Are fallen by the sword;
And the pistol
And AR-15
And the rifle
And the….and the…and the…
Isaiah felt this
Their bows shall shatter the young;
They shall show no pity to infants,
They shall not spare the children.
Today, America feels this
But we blame doors. We blame perverted faith. We blame mental health. We blame games.
Yet we dare not blame the tools of death
And so the killing goes on and on and on
So many names and obituaries
Of men, women, children who still had so much life in them
But now who are mourned
And will be mourned forever
Who are mourned this day in America
But who will soon be forgotten in America
Until the next killing
But, we are told, stay quiet, do nothing for nothing can be done.
They tell us to vow allegiance to a Constitutional Amendment
But not to our children
We have forsaken our little ones
Made them unfortunate consequences of our privilege
But have turned our privilege into permission
To obliterate their futures
We echo Isaiah because of our privilege:
These two things shall come upon you,
Suddenly, in one day:
Loss of children and widowhood
Shall come upon you in full measure,
This day they have come upon us in full measure
And we wait in vain
As we watch our children die
And we still talk about doors and hardening our schools, and synagogues, and churches, and mosques, and supermarkets, and music festivals.
But what we have already hardened is our hearts
To the cries of children who can cry no more.
Who have seen death
And, still, we talk and talk and still we say nothing.
There is no balm in Gilead
No physician be found
Healing not yet come to my poor people
And none will come, says Isaiah:
Though you pray at length,
I will not listen.
Your hands are stained with crime
The breath of children is the foundation of the world
And, still, we take away the breath of children who
Played and laughed and delighted in learning and living
With weapons of war
There is a better way, says our still voice
We but have to choose it
Would that we can find the strength to choose life and pursue it
For our foundations are crumbling
And our children lay dead.
