Words come hard in a time of darkness.
Language has been taken over, sentences, hijacked.
People try to remember, they try to form the sounds but all turns to sand and ashes in their mouths.
They spit, and get along to work.
The only ones immune are the children and those in great distress:
Mourners, seekers, the love-gripped.
Their voices still vibrate with the power of their emotion, true emotion,
Separate and distinct from the men shouting and posturing on the screens,
Boasting, spouting platitudes,
Promising retribution, bread and five-year plans.
The human heart:
It sees without eyes, so the screens can’t contain it.
It hears beyond words, so the tarnished promises and the whetted lies don’t fool it.
It still knows the presence of another, a hand in a hand,
Feels the shadow of a bird passing overhead and the sound of water running down a hillside.
The artists and the very young stand singing in a field. And like sunflowers, all heads turn their way.
Nancy Squires January 2017