The ghosts of genocides past
Scream their defiance at the world
that stood and watched
They do not die so easy
The unjustly murdered scream for their revenge
I hear them in my nightmares
I see them in the street at dusk
I feel their cold dead fingers on the back of my neck
When the winter winds blow
I taste their blood in my wine
I smell the stench of their long dead shells
Wafting down the winter wind
And screaming.....
Indians
Christians
Blacks
Armenians
Moslems
Aztecs
Jews
All peoples
Leaves of the same tree
Do not die so easy
And they watch NOW
G.S., '83
illustration: GS