Anger

The dead can only whisper,
they can’t scream or shout.
The cold ground above them
mutes their cries
of the folly 
that placed them here,
no more noted
than the distant barking
of hungry dogs,
while above them
in the world
they have been cast out,
having risen with the sun 
unaware that the same sun
would set without them,
the killing goes on—
power
 money
 lust
 ethnic rivalry
 pure evil—
all the usual suspects
prompting men to kill their own
and fill the cemeteries
from country churchyards
to national resting places
to mass graves
of the unnamed slaughtered
with the silent, unheeded
dead.

The Silent Dead