Photo courtesy of Amnesty International
Words cannot bring back
the dead. But they can heal
the wounded my teacher said.
I went to the house; found
its absence baffling and bitter
like smoke disappearing
from a dying fire. Words
cannot bring back the dead.
But how will you embrace
me smoke, sift blocked bile,
make it fly into air and
memory? Will I always
remember how the city
looked before the bombs
dropped? Photographs
still adorn books abroad.
“Use the pictures” you
say. “Rebuild. Restore.”
“Shut up,” I say. Words
cannot bring back
the dead. But I am
alive still and you
who read these words
can heal turning this page.