900
900
Before crosses of redemption,
and burning candles
weeping tears for the 900,
that only mothers can cry,
The remains of dreams,
scattered and bleached
beneath the shade
of Palo Verde trees.
Hopes of warm embraces
are left to cadaver dogs
archeologist
and genetic swabs.
Dreams of a new life,
are stored in sterile cold drawers.
Waiting for peace,
Waiting to go home.
Weep for the 900.
They are our sons and daughters,
Our brothers and sisters,
Our future and past
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