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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Friday, November 16th, 2012

Time Event
This years TDOR poem

Never forget, they kill us on the street
and most of us they kill are black and brown
It's true that if they could they'd kill us all
In this time and this place we're safe to mourn
Our sisters' deaths whose lives were never safe
Their lives our war they fought on the front line

When I was young, I walked that street, that line
My friends and teachers taught me on the street
My live when older happens to be safe
Mostly because I'm white, not black or brown
And it's my younger self I also mourn
I could have been them, so I mourn them all

Bad men may try, but cannot kill us all
We know our history, of the long line
brothers and sisters, all of those we mourn
not just the ones who fell upon the street
this year but all who white, yellow, black, brown
died in that past when none of us were safe

We have this moment here when we are safe
Which may not last. Because they hate us all
the rich white us, not just the black and brown
We stand her linking arms in a long line
with our dead sisters, live ones on the street
Never forget to honour and to mourn

It is politcal to stand and mourn
in silence. We can do this, we are safe
And yet they also mourn out on the street
Blow on their hands in cold, and cry. They all
know that each death is one in a long line
and most of those who die are black or brown

Never forget them. Sisters black and brown
most of the names on the long list we mourn
This day is not about some perfect line
one of us gets to write because we're safe
And some of us are rich, and it's true all
of us are here not working on the street

Black white and brown, in danger or quite safe
We have to mourn our sisters, mourn them all
In solidarity's unbroken line, rich poor, or standing proud out in the street
Not a love poem

The child within her almost dead. Its heart
sputtered away but did not ever stop.
And as it died, its dying drop by drop
leaked poison into her. And every part

each organ started dying. Doctors said
that while the child retained a spark of life
faith had decreed they could not use a knife
to end it. Not until the child was dead

and so she died as well. She had no choice,
soon no life either. Poison in her blood
vomit and fever. And the pious good
religious doctors listened to her voice

as it grew fainter. Let her die. Our tears
for all they've killed just like her, all these years.

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