In some corners of the internet
some brothers spill their rage onto an epitaph
yet to be written, a message carved
by time on the tombstones of terror.
I want to ask, is your anger a dirge mistimed,
or a muttering of protests drowned by noise?
Or what is to be lost if we swoop both low and high
in the face of fury? But I desire silence
in a humane verse, reading half-truths
from those who fully know the past
without knowing themselves.