I stand.
I stare.
I imagine.
I can’t imagine,
But the rocks on the ground, the rubble,
The jagged sharp stones,
Millions of black hard stones,
Each seem to remember.
Each hold a horrific memory,
Each a victim of torture.
I pick one up.
I pick you up.
You are one of millions,
So different yet the same.
Hard sharp jagged edges.
Edges formed from horror,
Pain,
Anguish,
Despair,
Each different,
But all the same.
I hold you.
I squeeze you.
I kiss you.
I pull you close to my heart,
And I take in what you tell me.
A train roaring past,
Wailing in the wind,
Carrying the cry of millions.
You are one of the millions,
You were treated the same,
But you are just one.
An individual.
The rain falls down slowly and gently.
The tears fall down fast and hard.
I hold you.
I feel you.
I listen to what you tell me.
The hums and soft strums of the guitar,
Playing tunes of sorrow and love,
You are loved.
Trains heading to who knows where,
You were there.
They had no care.
But my heart is there.
I hold you.
Squeeze you tight.
Your soul, spirit, life,
Life in us, those remembering,
Life in the trees surrounding,
Life lives on and your spirit soars.
I I breathe in the air and your spirit too,
And your soul seeps within me,
I take you in.
You live within me.
You are an individual,
Yet one of the millions,
You are just a stone in my hand,
But you are there in my heart.
Rest in peace.
Teach.
We will live on.
And you will too,
Within us,
We who remember,
We who learn your story.
We will remember.
We will not forget you.
You are one of millions.
But you are the stone with a soul – in my hand.