900

      

                                                                900

 

Before crosses of redemption,

and burning candles

weeping tears for the 900,

that only mothers can cry,

 

The remains of dreams,

scattered and bleached 

beneath the shade 

of Palo Verde trees.

 

Hopes of warm embraces

are left to cadaver dogs

archeologist

and genetic swabs.

 

Dreams of a new life,

are stored in sterile cold drawers.

Waiting for peace,

Waiting to go home.

 

Weep for the 900.

They are our sons and daughters,

Our brothers and sisters,

Our future and past

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This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world

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