This poem is dedicated to the victims (because since I did a poem to the perpetrators, I have to do it to the victims as well. Go figure).
What did you feel,
How did you react,
When you realized,
The fruits of freedom,
Can be reached?
The tall tree bare and dying,
Is now lively and thriving.
The victims go to the tree,
Hands trembling as they do so.
Their bodies shiver from the flavors,
The sweet liberation mixed with the sour of pain.
Some even spit the fruit out,
For many is tastes bitter with loneliness.
Families leave the tree once gathered,
Starting new lives,
Bleeding and dying the old lives are,
Being abandoned in the dark.
The old lives being replaced,
And the loners who didn't leave,
Stay under the tree.
Slowly as they stay there,
The road to recovery disappears,
And drips down people's faces.
For both groups of people,
They both started from ashes.
They began with air in hands,
Able to grab nothing between their fingers,
And had a huge grey stone wall to climb over.
They all made it past the wall,
Except the spirits of the dead,
That still circle,
And soon rest,
Around the now,