Horns blare,
And people stare,
As hushes of why fill the air.
Another voice is stilled.
And as grief entombs our hearts,
And despair enshrouds our souls,
Ask of what?
Is it a man,
Blood bathed,
That so helplessly lies?
Or dreams and hopes,
Of many and one,
Violently crushed?
Or blind emotions,
Thoughtlessly smothered.
Cry not for him,
Nor his slayer’s mind,
But for us,
Who cowardly cloak
The horror
With reverent awe.
James K. Richardson