Poetry Porch: Poetry


Song of the Towers

“How long will it take those men and women
to stop using the coloring books of suffering?”

Across the valley of the silence,
Across the valley of the pain,
Across a city in tears,
The moon shines just as brightly, just as clearly,
The night rests just as gently upon the hills.
How can this be?


Across the ocean and across the continents and in another era of time,
The camp lay still under the rise of the purple mountain,
Shrouded in a cloak of darkness
It was awaiting the touch of light in the east.

Yoncheako lay waiting, restless, knowing the sky would soon reveal the new day,
The day they would begin the march across the mountains.
Out of the valley of the homeland.
Yoncheako remembers the large, luminous eyes of his wife, Mayuko,
Her arms sheltering the sleeping child of the moon,
Chun Yui, his child just born under the spring moon.
When the sky signals, arms must be lifted,
The march commenced.
Why, why, why?
How can it be that this spectre of death should be wished upon the sleeping children?
Yoncheako lay waiting in the bone-chilling cold that had settled upon the valley.


Across the valley of the silence, across the valley of the years,
A grief-stricken woman, Saruah, stands watching,
Feeling the shuddering of the towers,
Hearing the explosive, crushing steel,
Ripping, crashing, thrashing, hearts encrusted with blood,
Saruah stands immobilized, watching;
Saruah feels the grief-stricken heart of Mayuko
Sobbing through the centuries into the hair of Chun Yui.


Yoncheako would never return from across the mountains,
Chun Yui would not feel the encircling arms of her father,
Mayuko would not be comforted,
Saruah collapses sobbing amidst the rubble.


Across the valley of destruction,
Across the valley of the sadness,
A once bustling city was shrouded in pain, families mourning,
Children desolate with grief and fear,
An entire nation in sorrow.
All across the homelands, all across the centuries,
The violence still lingers.
Will we see in time?


Mayuko would sit many mornings at the make-up table,
Many, many mornings with the loneliness hanging upon the morning sky.
The city will be mourning its wounds for long, long years,
The rubble combed for any signs of life, for any signs of hope, for any answers.
We cannot let this happen, not yet again.
Will we see in time?
Will we know what we must do?
Will the courage in our hearts be strong enough?
Will we find the way?


The song of the towers
Rises from the eerie stillness of the night,
From all across the homelands and through all the centuries of sadness,
From across the laps of our children.
Will we see in time?
Will we have the courage?
Will we find the way?


Copyright © 2008 by Elizabeth Reeke.