Rachel Weeping for her Children
I am haunted by her face,
the mother, breasts heavy with milk,
arms heavy with the ghost of her child,
belly swollen from months of carrying love.
Her face, as they ripped her child,
from her breast,
face frozen in a millisecond of disbelief,
then, as she feels her heart breaking in two,
she is wracked with cries so loud I can hear them 8,000 kilometers away.
Can you hear her cries in the wind?
Raped and beaten, threatened and starved,
she crossed 500 miles of dangerous desert
for the land of refuge,
now a house of horrors.
Rachel weeping for her children.
And I weep in gratitude that my forefathers cannot see what we have become.