Embers of history are no relics of gold
The oft-told story has no veracity in bold
The past is a corpse lying in mysterious dark
A graveyard of truth, which is seldom marked
Museums are no foundries of the lives that were led
Their artefacts don’t mourn for the veins that bled
Evil guns brought victory for the remorse disowned
The harvests were reaped by those that didn’t sow
The words on our pages are worthless and only brief
Indiscriminate power left poor nations to untold grief
Hunters have walked the planet with their wills blind
lampooning justice, leaving compassion way behind
Truth is stonewalled and contriteness uncarved stone
Present generations don’t bear culpability in their bones
Who will strip the unrelenting layers like peels of an onion?
For the compunctious curtain is not a fabric that is worn
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