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Remembering my daughter to God (For the maimed children of Sierra Leone.) My beautiful Girl, whose birth made my heart Cry, she is thirteen years Young on a shining Wednesday, when Midnight - a man like me and a boy with an Axe - hacks across her Afternoon. They grab her by her Throat and drag her from my sister's House, gravelling her knees into bloody Wounds. They do not even Hate her, even someone who hates cannot be so Brutal, but to hear her speak of them is Not to see brutality, only to feel a Sting where your hands used to Be. Their indecency is so Vast they cannot even cut Evenly, they leave arms that have come from two Corpses ripped apart by indifferent Hyeanas. It was me, me, I was Cut - the evidence thuds numbly behind my Eyes - but I do not have the comfort of a Wound, and now I have given up, I have left my Senses, which do not know the Words, which do not know the Reasons, reasons? what reasons, this is an Outrage and God the silent Partner is the most outrageous of All. And will you think yourself one Day to have become a burden, and without Telling me will you accept a man's Proposal and have his children who will Touch their fingers to your nightmares and Say, "Mama, what happened to your Arms?" Be sure that, at the last, I will be more Damned than brutes, in the irony of Judgement, for this slender blade of thought I Bring down upon the Hand of God, God the Untouchable, holding out to me such bloody Wisdom. O my child, when the great Father summons me at my last of Life, and asks the balance of my life's Account, I should remember to offer my thanks with both Hands brought together in supplication, but I Know that all I will remember are your Stumps. |
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