Silence

 

Silence is a kind of torture. The nicest child

Would sooner be naughty than ignored.

He who speaks hearing into the ears of the deaf

Is silent now before his interrogators

And the importunate impotence of their kingdom.

 

Silence too upon this bare spiked hill.

The sudden-hushed Babel of the universe

Wears black for its quiet and wasted king,

For shame at loud men. It is for thieves to rail;

He seems to have no business but to suffer.

 

And God is silent as the sun goes blank

And a veil moves slowly over the heavens.

No-one contradicts these bureaucrats and butchers

As they congratulate themselves upon this killing.

The silence bites into his soul. "My God, my God" -

 

Now these loud shouts. Now it is our turn

To stare dumbfounded at the power of

This crushed body and hoarse thirsty voice -

Which tears graves open, ripping like a curtain

The tortured silence forcing God from men.