Home Is Where The Hurt Is

Sending a silent hymn

to a quiet cave still haunted.

An old distorted kin

keeps the child in its crib

and lets it weep.

Keeps it lit with a dream

so solemnly dim.

Time to gather the nest

of memories ruefully taunted

and finally lay it in an alley.

What a thrill of consolation

when a small history has died.

A victory over a nation

only you carry inside.