Hope, Not Hate

It was a Friday morning,
as I recall.
I sat in the chapel in the Emlékhely*.
Sunlight filtered through high windows
and reflected off transparent pews,
and I saw the name of a child
which I cannot now remember.
Her tender feet barely touch this Earth
before bigotry brought her pain
to an abrupt and violent end.

It was a Wednesday morning,
As I recall.
I sat in a room far removed from a chapel.
Sunlight poured in and flooded the news
of a drowned boy whose name
I do not know.
His tender feet barely touched this Earth
before calamity crushed his pain
with an abrupt and violent end.

There is nothing comparable
between the shocking spheres
of Holocaust and humanitarian crisis
except the pointlessness
of pointless violence,
and hate.

One girl, one boy, nearly a century apart.
One girl, one boy who passed from this world
uncomprehending of their parents’ tormented lives,
yet perhaps shared a glimpse of precarious hope
before dying
alone in darkness.

Too many children suffer
under bondage, under poverty,
under fierce fire.
Worlds shattered too soon
amid the horror of man’s machinations
as our future perishes
alone in darkness.

We walk on a beach
where young minds
lie lifeless on sand caressed
by their tears of pain.
Carry that lament,
and carry them to safety
with water seeping to our breast,
and carry too a call on our lips
against the blackness
of their suffering
that should be
Welcome.

Malek Montag, Rochester, Kent, 2015

*memorial

About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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