by Myrna Perez
Tell her: a child raped through
endless darkness, groveling in a hole.
Hatred thrust upward through her body.
Tell him: his hands, now pieces
scattered like chaff across a mindfield.
Blood, like rain: splattered.
Tell them: machetes through their brains,
genocide claiming the heart of their families.
-All is one, facets of a singular whole.-
WIll she love better, her nerves deadened with
pain and shame?
Will he embrace his children more tightly,
though he lacks the limbs to do so?
Will they cherish their culture more,
as it is sacrificed on an altar of fear?
Hope is not a wishing, it is not denial.
I do not deny the poignancies of experience;
the melding of sorrow and joy across the plane
of a life. The sentient desire to have true
interaction with reality.
But how can we, in our first world
cocoons claim that evil makes the world complete?
Evil is life's parasite.
How do you know that your illusion is real...
Changing the ontological category of existence gets you no further in explaining it. Why? Can you answer it?