I am not sure how many days it has been since the senseless tragedy of the shootings at Sandy Hook, USA. The last of the victims were buried today at any rate and though I knew not one of the victims personally I cried. Again. Twenty children under the age of seven. Twenty seven people in total.
I have ALWAYS been anti-guns and will continue to be. I have lived 30 years of my life in one of the most violent countries in the world and I believe that putting instruments whose sole purpose is to take life into the hands of people and not expecting innocent lives to be lost is just ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous, far beyond. Death wins again and again, that is for sure.
It is in moments like this that I always hope there is a poem which says what I cannot, and I found one which was written for the death of children (plural). The funerals are just the start and my prayer is the Comforter is with all those families who are facing probably the worst Christmas ever. A horrible irony as we celebrate the birth of the Child who is, in my personal opinion, the only hope of mankind. So starts the process of living without their loved ones, children whose lives were brutally robbed of their lives and yet who I believe are safe in the arms of the Hope of mankind.
Congregation of the story tellers at a funeral of Soweto children
We have entered the night to tell our tale,
To listen to those who have not spoken.
We, who have seen our children die in the morning,
Deserve to be listened to.
We have looked on blankly as they opened their wounds.
Nothing really matters except the grief of our children.
Their tears must be revered,
Their inner silence speaks louder than the spoken word;
And all being and all life shouts out in outrage.
We must not be rushed to our truths.
Whatever we failed to say is stored secretly in our minds;
And all those processions of embittered crowds
Have seen us lead them a thousand times.