knittingknots (knittingknots) wrote,

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(Not a fun poem.  A contemplation on man's inhumanity to man)

The pain wraps around us,
throbbing, throbbing,
the pain, oh the pain
like the rhythm unceasing
of an unending beating,
like metal on iron.

The pain, oh the pain
the hammer hits nail,
iron upon steel,
over and over
throbbing, throbbing
piercing through flesh,
going deeper and deeper
until it lodges in wood.

The pain, oh the pain,
a woman cries in the night
coated in blood
as her loved one is slain,
hear the hammer strokes fall
as she calls upon heaven
in pain, oh the pain.

He sifts through the rubble
of what was left of a shop
as the hammer stroke drop
in the pain, oh the pain,
body parts crushed
amid red brick and dust
throbbing, throbbing
a dead child carried away.

The blood rose blooms
throbbing, throbbing
the red blood cascading
from the chest of a girl
her father screams out
in pain, oh the pain
the shock and the terror
in the fall of the hammer
and a gunman smiles.

Dukkha, Dukkha,
the wheel ever turning –
Is it greased by our blood
crying to heaven
awash in its sounds
as the iron hammer pounds
over and over
doomed to repeat
until the last voice is stilled
and the last drop is bled
and there is nothing left but silence?

A/N Dukkha - usually translated suffering, although it has a broader sense of meaning.  In classic Sanskrit, the term was often compared to a large potter's wheel that would screech as it was spun around, and did not turn smoothly.  The first Noble Truth of Buddhism is that life is Dukkha.
Tags: poem
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