Can you imagine that outcasts may mourn?

That the tears of ill-judged outsider

and the lonely

Ghost only flow when they return

to the fold, to be greeted

by the sermon forever ringing

in their ears, this leper,

no more than 33, untouchable pariah

making jokes and revelled, frightened wit,

would have often cried,

I would not blame the outcast and the exiled

for screaming damnation

at the society who shun them,

33, prisoners all, regardless of crime,

perceived offence, to mourn

would be show remorse;

stand up, stand up, for today

we shall not bow our heads

nor have hair cut short

like those who shoulder a gun

or spent time being told

they were wrong, stand up, grin,

only mourn when they admit

they were wrong.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018