#18.

All the witnesses, their eyes as red as the burning sun, will be sat in front of God.

All their testimonies, tear imprinted stories, will be heard.

All will be asked the same questions, heartfelt and the next more poignant than the last.

“If they were seventeen to die, who was number one?

The first who died or the last who lived?

Who was number one, the youngest or the oldest?

The one who strived to escape Nurkse’s circle, the beak of the vulture,

or the one who sang with the lark, unconscious and accepting?

And who was number seventeen, the stick figure in our minds,

the Faceless Victim, was he the one to cry out for help?

The one to yell at his parents before leaving the house, or

the one who impregnated his kisses and affection on all he had left?

Did he cry when it happened or did he yell ‘run’,

Like the protective figure, some call a father?

Did he love with all his heart or was his staunched in vain?

Did his lungs give out seconds before,

as if he were drowning in the blood of all those before?

Did you see them? Did you bid farewell? Do you regret it?”

And before God, we will all say that the sun had set that day,

behind black trees, covered white by a pall of pain,

The wind had blown all night and women had turned into banshees

We all slept, for some, it seemed like seconds, some are still not awake. We slept.

Unscarred hearts of students all around the world had been ripped open,

and we spoke of what we saw inside,

we spoke of the muffled pain,

the unceasing words,

the relentless grief,

we spoke,

again and

again

until

there

were

only

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, 17 wounded

17 killed, am I next?

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