You bow your head in silent thought
Or prayer as it may be
Whereby some solace may be bought
To soothe your infamy;
My body barely in the ground
Your soul should not be calm,
Nor words of truth, as should abound,
Provide you conscience-balm.
I died, and yet it was in vain,
My “undone years” aplenty,
More than your silence can explain
Though they be one or twenty.
Talk, talk, and tell the world the way
To stop a man from slaughter,
Your paltry words cannot repay
Each orphaned son or daughter.
Each friend, each parent left bereaved,
Each stranger who bore witness,
Attest, in tears which they have grieved
Your silent shame’s unfitness.
No, “thoughts and prayers” will not suffice,
It’s action we demand,
Else meaningless our sacrifice
And blood upon your hand.