Woe this weight on human souls,
Injustice done regardless of roles,
That part of us we choose to ignore,
A burden we carry forever more.

Smoke and fire drift in the dark,
Burning cross left as a mark,
Black men lynched for color of skin,
Apathy perhaps our deepest sin.

Among bleak ruins of torn Serajevo,
Artillery rounds fly salvo by salvo,
Drown out the cries of orphans' fate,
Sown by Muslim, Serb, and Croat hate.

From Buchenwald drift flakes of ash,
The subtle seeds of a malevolent rash,
Gypsy or Jew by ovens consumed,
From Earth's face their spirits exhumed.

Blood stained snow at Wounded Knee,
Sioux lying dead yet now strangely free,
If not yet forgotten then surely soon,
The only remaining sign, a Yellow Moon.

Damage done merely an example of few,
The record of time reflects nothing new,
Should we choose to ignore and fail to learn,
Without doubt, we must ask, when is our turn?
 

S.L. Keck
2/27/99

EMAIL Stu WITH COMMENTS ON "Woe This Weight"
VISIT Stu's HP
RETURN TO GENRE INDEX
RETURN TO POETRY INDEX