by Eli Hayes

The noise of history is gray and turns with the wind,
Like pages held by hungry children; smoke and laughter.
And madness in a village of plasma, voices unheard,
Tombs unseen, sacred and without a home.

Red hair wisps, soft voices whisper,
As we hold the hand of the beast,
We, the statues; we, the living,
Know cruelty and its command.

Inspired by the 1994 film, “Whispering Pages”