The Broken Dream.
Dawn's first light.
Crepuscular rays streamed through a veil of mist,
which hung in the morning air.
I did not know where the dream had taken me,
But I saw them there.
Not a word was passed between us,
myself and the Ten.
They looked at me with vacant eyes,
for I knew these men.
A path well worn by the passing years,
had brought me to that place,
where memories lingered - good and bad.
And a meandering stream, fed into a river of tears.
♞♜♝
I heard the rattle of keys turned in locks.
I heard grills and cell doors opening,
then slamming shut again.
Hate-filled voices screaming
in the face of defiance.
Haunting echoes from another time.
A grim reminder of the past.
I heard the sound of violence inflicted.
A poets words in rhythm.
A mothers voice. 'Please don't die.'
But all in vain.
Then they faded from my consciousness,
the haunting sounds from long ago.
Like the bitter winter of '78, they melted away like that year's snow.
♞♜♝
I stood before those men.
Their blankets a testament to the naked truth.
That the lies of those they trusted
had robbed them of their youth.
Had robbed them of a life.
A life they willingly gave.
Not a word was passed between us,
myself and the Ten.
But their eyes spoke to me.
Spoke to me from beyond the grave.
And they told of a broken dream.
No lark soared free,
nor did a Blackbird's song,
greet the dawning of the day.
The day which never came.
I could see the pain in their eyes.
Those vacant eyes which spoke to me.
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Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman. Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie |
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