Hard, dry, crumbling ground,
quietly cracking from the explosives
hidden, breathless beneath.
Sixty years before
small, grimy, gentle little hands
in the darkness before dawn
had dug deep, with determination
to hide something within them.
It was a secret that
wouldn’t be known for six long decades.
Those children grew
into stunted, tortured, twisted bodies
that could not escape
those harsh, tense touches in the night.
Lying in bed,
they wait for the creaking crack
in the door to grow in size
and for the shadow to flirt with the ground
and the decision of whether or not
to rape a child.
Eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkles
still wait, with the covers
pulled up tight to their chins.
The home for children
was meant to be a haven
of safety and security;
but instead of colourful crayon
drawings placed proudly on the walls
there were whispered words
written in light, shaky hands.
Light enough to be almost invisible,
these children were hidden from a world
not yet ready to understand.
In that day and age such things
did not exist
and were easily missed by blind eyes,
milky with the dew of patriotism and ignorance.
Sixty years on and those brittle,
broken words are finally heard.
They escape from the cracked jars
they had been banging on,
burdened and buried under the crumbling ground.
Like a phoenix they rise
free from those lies and the perversion
of people who were meant to care.