How Could It Be?
Red brick walls, uninviting yet familiar
A labyrinth of screams and stolen youth
And stolen ageing and stolen life
And stolen happiness and stolen intimacies
Things I take for granted, a warm summers night.
There’s victims in all of us, this should always be
Blue and white shrouds consuming memories
For all who cry for the taken of the Shoah
For all who see numbers in the dark
And teach themselves the wrongs of the past
To determine future failings,
Are reconciled by human solution,
Human compassion and reason, never selection,
And sympathy and goodness and a wanting for life
And moments afforded to us by breathing
A wreath atop a train line is silent
But for the wind whispering all it’s ever seen
It cries for the lost, it tells you if you listen
How could it be otherwise?
Raymond Meade is a Glaswegian guitarist/songwriter. He doesn’t write poetry often but occasionally songs that haven’t materialised find a home in his small collection of poems. He is currently writing songs for his new album.
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