The Cemetery of Conscience

The Cemetery Of Conscience 

“All changed, changed utterly: 

A terrible beauty is born” 

(from Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats) 


There is no more time. No time at all 

for death rites or wailing mothers 

or ambulance sirens wailing 

in between the debris and the rubble 

of lives born in The Capitol's

Murder Registers. No roads left 

to evacuate those declared dead 

before ever truly living,

no refuge to shield the perpetual

refugee. No place for burial

rituals. This is the Cemetery

of Slain Conscience and Dignity. 

This yard did not exist 

on western maps- 

erased years ago – until 

the sky came down, at once, raining 

torrents of home-made rockets, 

“out of the blue.”


Long before this place was bombed again, 

this place was cursed in the death notes

of undertakers in black suits, and the notes 

of fat gamblers filled with inflated 

interest rates who wagered on brand new 

weapons. This is not the right place to brood 

over gentrified privileges 

or cancelled voyages. No place 

left for the seed of dignity 

to grow. Not an inch for hope to seep 

beneath this prison fence. But children 

break through all fences, they burst out 

of the pores of adolescence 

and nothing, nothing can stop them 

from blazing out of a besieged

childhood and a horizon born dead. 

Behind this seventeen-year-old siege 

a terrible beauty has gone wild!


Tonight the lights went out in Gaza. 

Fathers don’t have to shut the blinds

they don’t need to tuck their children 

under blankets of fire and flare 

from fighter jets above their heads. 

Not one drop of water is left 

to quench the thirst of the elderly

before they die, handing over 

the rusty keys of hope to the next 

generation. Not one crust of bread 

remains before the false “free-world” 


Here, under the siege of conscience, 

the strangled is denied resistance,

and children born with a death sentence

bury hope before they reach adolescence. 


And the dead will welcome the dead

in purgatory because they are stateless 

and doomed without burial grounds

for children born older than Biden

and children born “terrorists” 

by birth, family name, skin, religion;

Allahu Akbar & The Holy Trinity

Allahu Akbar, I cry out in misery:

Why have you forsaken us?

Alone we battle for life in death,

and alone we battle death in life.

This child stands alone, and no one 

would wipe her tears, and the yellow snot

of the hypocritical “free-world”

from her nose and the scars from her soul, 

and the absent future from her present, 

and hold her in their arms, for a while, 

just hold her fragile hand, for a while. 


The reverse Exodus has begun 

and Moses is not marching along 

into the Cemetery of Conscience,

and the hot air mirage, death skulls 

lining the way towards the Nile.

And Egypt has one Nile only,

and the Nile is not a nursing mother

for the stateless and dispossessed.

I saw a father push a cart

of US produced misery

and the remains of a family,

another carried a bag soaked in red,

his children’s remains, they said.

Once again, the “free-world” looks away. 

They brought their remains 

where two mothers bury 

their miscarried unborns, 

dead by starvation, killed 

by a medieval siege. 

And a red shirt kid with a parrot

on his shoulder. He teaches the parrot

sweet sound bites, like “self-defense” 

and the “free-world.” I honestly ask you,

I ask myself, who will remain

to tell the story of the death

of the “free-world” conscience?