I walk between rows of what was once flesh.
Faces stare as I gaze upon what remains.
Can I truly understand the meaning of these bones
that stand 16 feet beside me?
Purple and white drape the wood that carry souls.
Tragedy and hope don’t seem to begin to honor
who rests here.
Thousands upon thousands of clothes
stop me from walking another step.
It is sacred ground.
Piled on pews, and in corners,
murdered against the wall, against each other,
laid to rest.
Blood stains mixed with .50 cal metal.
And I am afraid to look away.
This is not how history was suppose to be made.
They do not deserve to be staring empty at me,
as I do at them.
These lips will not tell me their stories.
Nyamata Genocide Memorial, Rwanda