Saracens On Parade

Martyrs stream toward old
mahogany mountains
to be(hind) or not
quite in front of a new yesterday--
an obsolete tomorrow--
the clash is the same.
These hills are alive with the sounds
of silence,
populated by the children
who survived
the war learning the new language
bit
by
b
i
t
under carefully assimilated watchful eyes of enemy
soldiers and shooting stars,
or bombs falling
like visitors from
another
world singing softly to
Goghesque ears that hear
what they
see.