Friday, June 5, 2009

6/4/89 [June 4th | 138/365]

The students sang the Internationale in an effort to remember that there was something to stand for as they watched their childhood heroes demand they lay their heads down on the block to a tank tread a human being is pulp the young woman crying about the desire for death the far too familiar hope that everything goes well and the citizens who try to keep the soldiers from entering the city are also meat to a cleaver and no the hand there is a hand and there are hands guiding those hands and brains sending messages and the teachers die alongside their students and when they had finished singing the Internationale they sang the March of the Volunteers because those are the songs they know the bulldozers will pile up the debris there is nothing to their name their names ruthlessly unrecorded but for every person dead there must be at least one other who remembers who they are and where they died and the students watch the tracer bullets and someone will say that they sounded like firecrackers and there are people alive today who are responsible and in whose name will they be judged those human rags the students are nameless but there are people whose names we know and the students left as faint light spread westward across the sky and the students left quietly when dawn arrived like an army sent to murder night.

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