The white granite City of arched, parched quiet domes
Homes, to the Glorious Dead, mile after mile
Pile after pile, side by side
All, precisely one yard wide
In the Silent City
The roads with familiar names, Robertson, Emerson
All gone
Or cul-de-sacs called Unknown, Anon
Numbered white dome- doors that nobody answers
Cemetery road maps, creased with crosses, showered with shrapnel
Row after row of low pink moles, untold heroes
Who live eternally, in the City of fighting ghosts and deafening lost souls
Come judgement day, who will stand and say
For the soundless, hushed, crushed
Cross or Crescent, Hindu, Jew, Voodoo or a few He knew
The multicultural slain in their final pain, that cries out their own God’s name
Laid out neat, in sheets of detached graves of Devil’s slaves
Facing the same way, all holding their breath ‘til atonement pities
The old lags and Battalions of bold, unfolding, fluttering flags
Away from the Silent City
Concept of ‘Silent City
© Harry Mills Boracay Philippines 20th November 2011
All rights reserved
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