By: G. Louis Heath
A tale filled with the darkest shade of black is
a very hard tale to tell. But I must warn the
generations unborn. The broken bones in the
mass grave dug into the hardpan plain darken
infinity. Songbirds dare not fly over them. Trills
fade fast in their throats in the dread poisonous air.
Vultures, upheld by thermals of theodicical wisdom,
circle far wide of the massacre a millennium ago.
One tribe, faces painted black, streaked with ochre,
killed all in another, no quarter given the young.
Archeologists today climb out of their sunny, summer
dig, tears welling in their eyes at the enormity of the
ancient crime. Tears must flow in a river for a thousand
years to wash these bones that hide the secret of us all.