Only the Lilacs Know
The room was cold and damp, its window stained
with streaks of rust. Outside, the lilacs pulsed
their scent through purple veins. Upon a cot
a child lay crumpled -- torn by terror, wracked
with pain. Her thirteen years had not prepared
her for this crude attack -- for hands that forced
such degradation... Innocence had died;
the earth itself had cried, the lilacs called
for retribution. Yet he strode away,
unscathed. The years rolled by; he rode the plump
express of wealth and fame. Until that day...
A most peculiar accident, they said.
A clumsy fall down thirteen stairs -- it broke
his neck; his sins now feed eternal flames.
And someone placed a lilac on his grave.
© Copyright 2003 Laryalee Fraser
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