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I open The New York Times
And thousands of corpses
Wash ashore, between the lines
Grinning at me; cold greetings of sympathy
We are all human and self-absorbed
Living our joys; suffering our shame
In the end, as from the start, all alone
My eyes can barely see the dead
Clouded by tears; stifled by sobs
Distant crosses set sail, waving goodbye
They are somebody else’s life
They are somebody else’s pain
I can’t feel it; I can’t see it
I can barely imagine it
Staring at me in black and white
Rows of newspaper tombs
While my own blood boils red
And my heart bursts with agony
From the pain you have caused.
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