Something More

It was not the water that drowned the land, cleansed the Earth, rinsed the filth. It was not the shard of glass that bled the finger, stained the tile, flecked the ambience of kitchen light. It was not the feral lioness in winter that punctured the leg, dashed the plain, birthed the cub. It was not the dictator of that land that enforced the wearing of stars, the seperation of mothers from children, the post tramatic stress of death camp survivors. It was not the tortures of young boys with never grown beards or the flinging of sound and machinery against some Vietnamese boy and girl or the scramble of nurses with pulled back hair amputating an arm that pulled them out, sent them home unwelcomed, made them want to go back. It was not hate of a darker skinned people that made airports on September a haunted place, struck fear among the world, made men want to stand up at night and utter curses at shadows they can never wound. It was not any one enslavement, massacre, or monarch that puts the time in motion, it is something more... perhaps the lighting of the hour.