It’s late summer and the red death of leaves

flow through the wide city streets.

It welcomes the thick smell of

the October night. And

I try to find faces in the red –

the faces of the children

in the blood that flows from

soldiers fatal wounds,

mother’s last breath,

the bodies that sweep across the ocean

and my television screen –

but soon forget.

 

It’s late summer and the red death of

the children’s blood flow through

the wide city streets.

But underneath the trembling stars

we soon forget.

 

We soon forget the child

that washed up on the shore

in a red t-shirt.

 

We soon forget him because

he doesn’t seem to

matter.

 

We soon forget because

we learn to like

the taste of empty.

 

We learn to like not caring.

 

We learn to like inaction.

 

We learn to hate the bodies that come across

our t.v screens – but we still

learn to forget.

 

It’s late summer and the red death of leaves

seem to mix with the children’s blood

that flow through the wide city streets.

 

But no one seems to care.

 

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