Frozen trees rasp in the wind. I think of a song I once heard about a dictator where the fiddler scraped the strings with his fingernails.
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Frozen trees rasp in the wind. I think of a song I once heard about a dictator where the fiddler scraped the strings with his fingernails.
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Memento Mori
It begins as a thread,
a voice lost above the descant of water.
We stop what we are doing in the kitchen
and lean toward the window, look out
where frozen trees rasp in the wind.
A wingbeat carrying
the gathered sound of a hundred things.
I think of a song I once heard about
a dictator, and the man he made to scrape
the strings of a fiddle with his fingernails.
Last night’s icicles
glint like daggers from the eaves.
One for each tiny hair that prickles on your nape:
count them if you can, then sing along– bodies in the river,
bodies sighing under a blanket of grass.
~ Luisa A. Igloria
12 28 2010
(for the victims of the Ampatuan massacre; and for all who have gone missing, or have suffered and perished, from any form of state or political repression)
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