Our Tombs Are Empty

Our tombs are empty.

Our ancestors find no rest in them.

There is no holy ground,

To hold their bones bound to eternity,

In peaceful repose.

Preferring to own the name “profane”,

They scorn to sleep,

And the sacred Earth beneath them, unsure, shifts.

The dirt flung upon them falls away.

And the coins we gave them,

(Were they offerings or bribes?)

Resurface, rejected.

The grave is just another closet,

And we are practiced at coming out.

So many have gone before us;

Great artists and mystics, scouting future paths,

Obscure heroes, living and dying in lonely isolation,

Tragic martyrs, sacrificed on the altar of hatred,

Sad patients, slowly wasting,

And fearful children, giving in to despair;

This is our great cloud of witness.

Their voices howl in the darkness,

Filling windy skies with blinding grey tears;

Restless spirits, fighting still.

They blaze before us,

Shadow us from behind,

And surround us on all sides in silent solidarity.

Having turned away from what was sacred,

They establish new holy ground.

They lurk in every bush,

Ready to spring into flames,

If we will only turn aside and look.

They call us out of bondage,

And help us to see

The good and broad land

That lies before us.

They call us to claim our own identities,

And declare that “I am who I am”.

Our tombs are empty,

But our ancestors seek no glorious monuments.

Their true memorials are in us.