The whimper of a whisper reached the world,
Eventually distress was known, but still forgotten.
Sometimes, that is all we hear in our own silence,
We do not absorb the message we think we read.
The silent village without a means of world volume,
Girls cast aside by enduring threat and suppression.
The imposition of casual opportunity upon innocence,
Actions of vile wickedness defiling the sanctity of life.
The common horror heard in the murmur of a silence,
A happening lost for exposition within its captive state.
As facile as the tightening nooses in the mango grove,
Onlookers collect in a common expectation and ritual.
Respect falters as robes twitch in the evening breeze,
The only voice hangs in the silent spectacle of death itself.
©Copyright Eileen T O’Neill 04/06/2014
Associated with the Prompt at Poets United: Mid-Week Motif: ‘Public Protest.’..