I mourn for pain that's not mine,
That I can't ever understand.
Mladić rotting in The Hague,
Ruling his own trial,
is this done?
Eight thousand dead.
I broke inside. I've yet to cry
The raw
brutality
nation,
Jesus and Jihad,
Genocide said so many times it
no longer sounds like a word,
but still we are all broken
I write my little poems to escape the truth that we are dirt
And yet it faces me with unforeseen ferocity in that enclave
I think of:
rows of white tombstones
Bits of bodies and their clothes in body bags.
There's many a body I've put in a body bag
but they've all been whole,
and I am broken,
diminished by the enormity of evil
For the survivors, there may never be anything approaching justice.
Apologies: inadequate.
Sentencing: inadequate.
(In some quarters, denialism reigns as kings).
One thing remains: this Srebrenica diminishes us all.