How many stories go untold?
Somewhere in a dry place, far away
there is a boy who is about to become a man.
He has made a choice to hear a whisper within.
He knows that Allah would not have him destroy His Creation
No matter what they all scream.
And there is a girl, a teen-aged city-girl.
She knows about the narrow path out.
She is clinging to hope in a world almost
Somewhere– right now– the sun is casting long, sad shadows.
A figure, impossibly stretched out, passes through a skinny doorway.
The bars, for the first time, are only behind him.
He knows now for the first,
prison is so much more than a place and so much less than a home.
We could theoretically count up
All the cars that had ever been filled up
with fertilizer, gasoline, dynamite, plastique…
We might, in heaven or hell
line up all the drivers
who pinned the accelerator that last desperate time…
We might glue back together
the annihilated leather shreads
of those belts laden heavy
worn by cowards who thought they were heroes.
who thought that suicide redeems homicide.
A photograph so easily documents the carnage
where the lives used to be.
But how can we trace
the sustenance and hope
which blossom like a mushroom cloud
from the rear of the red cross supply truck which ventures into devestation?
We could record all the mad men’s ramblings
package them into a box set,
and dub them revolutionary manifestoes…
But we can only dream
the stories of those
for whom violence
is the road not taken.
We will continue to document
the bodies lost in the blasts…
But how will we trace
the hope that the true heroes have sewn?
I want to be a guerilla of hope.
I will wage a holy peace.
I will see the truth untellable
I will know The Story behind the stories;
offering up my own single life
is better than serving up a thousand thousand deaths