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Until

fallow ground...
lips tremor, speaking nothing
in the language of false gods.

there can be no healing
until you see the disease,
smell the rotting flesh....

until the souls of the invisible
gather around you, and
you take your self back in.

until the words you speak
are built on action wrapped
in the forms of compassion....

until you ask forgiveness
of the mountains, the rivers,
and the sky.... until...

you nurse the baby at
your own breasts... until
you wash your hands in

the blood of the innocents.

poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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