Murdered And Unknown

Murdered, and unknown. No forgetfulness gathers them
and no remembrance scatters them . . . they're forgotten in
winter's grass on the public highway between
two long stories about heroism and suffering.
"I am the victim." "No. I alone am
the victim." They didn't tell the author: "No
victim kills another. There is in
the story a victim and a killer." They were young
picking the snow off Christ's cypress,
and playing with cherubs, since they were
of one generation . . . They used to leak out
of schools to escape math and ancient
Hamassa poetry, then play with soldiers,
by the roadblocks, the innocent game of death.
They didn't tell the soldiers: "Drop your rifles
and open up the roads for the butterfly to find
its mother by morning, and for us to fly with
the butterfly outside dreams, since dreams
are narrow at our doors." They were young
playing, and making a story for the red
rose beneath the snow, behind two long
stories about heroism and suffering, and they were
running away with cherubs toward a clear sky.