Mothers of Tiananmen (Poem)

You will not recognise their eyes
They are street cleaners, retired professors
But you will sink into their gaze
transparent, earnest and quiet
It doesn’t matter where they came from
It only matters where they are standing now
Restless bugle call has bleached their hair
but not their Tank-Man spirit
They take the seat of their sons
They echo the slogan of their daughters
They are mothers of lost children

You will not witness their tear
They hide it in the wrinkles of history, the wormhole of revolution
But you will taste their sorrow
salty, nostalgic and quiet
It doesn’t matter how long they have been waiting
It only matters how long they are still going to wait
Totalitarian hunger has blurred their eyes
but not their censored hope
They pray on the edge of justice
They breathe the whiff of hammer and sickle
They are mothers of truth

You will not find them again
They will be locked in the cryptic reference, the scarred myth
But you will inherit their name
immortal, affectionate and quiet
It doesn’t matter where they are going
It only matters what they have left behind
Flashy bullets have pierced through their womb and tomb
but not their resonating silence
They are mothers of Tiananmen
They ask for nothing
They ask for everything

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