There are Children who cannot speak-

Or eat- or breathe- or sleep- or think-

And how to long to stand and take

That which they believe is theirs-

Cowed, alone, quiet, scared-

Chicken to the threats of pain-

Dogged by doubts of confidence-

Running, Flighty- running-

always. Running-

Until their confidence is gone-

their spirits broke- their life-

Nothing is worth the pain.

And so they have a choice to make.

The easy way- the hooded man-

His scimitar and sickle sharp-

His kind eyes and friendly smile-

The help and the relief.

To hell with the consequences!

No-one loved them- they were

Untouchables, Unloveables-

Forgettable. Expendable.

Their life full of sadness

And Silence to fill a Room

with Pain. And Loss of everything-

Nothing but an illusion.

The harder way- the action took-

The flaming death- the noiseless screams-

Thiers’ is one of rage-

Bottled, closed- Sealed off.

The End is the same-

Neither way a paradise-

Nor parade- nor festivle-

Nor celebration-

Only the party of Silence.

         -That is left-

This is all they can give.

Their life nothing-

their Death nothing-

Only the resounding-

omnipotent- Suffered

Silence.