The Sun Dial

By Lise Brouillette

A field blasted

in the middle a tree

the last one standing

casting a shadow still

At every hour of the day

another grave it will

highlight by its darkening

grant it its daily

60 minutes of glory

Listen to the singer

listen to the poet

they act as so many seers

giving a voice to those

who can no longer speak :

"We are the poor and the once rich

the dispossessed, the displaced

the killed and the maimed

don’t think that the dead

are gone forever

For they live through the will

of those who remain

and their memory

replace the missing limbs, fills

the holes in the heart"

And more importantly

they stay

in the ground forever

the very same one

that is being stolen

a little more taken

every day

they stay

and they stay

and they stay

they never leave

A field blasted

in the middle a tree

every hour of the day

shadows another grave

the line of shadow timing

yet another grieving

Every day a new row

how many fields

how many trees

dead trees guarding

ever a bigger wheel

until he stolen land

is one big deathly field

The wanted peace at last

high-jacking the past

and mortgaging the future. 

– Lise Brouillette contributed this poem to

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