There is nothing of the truth, per se,
In what they are saying.
They’ve been stuffed full of rags
And lit on fire.
They dance in the suffering
Of their immolation
As if those not in flames
Are the cause of their pain.
We try to speak to them,
To ask their permission
To put out the fire.
They won’t hear a word.
If we’re not like them
On fire
We are not
Any good.
For to understand burning
Makes us human,
Which would be fine, even noble,
If they knew they were on fire.
Instead, they pretend that we are
The ones who are burning.
They have to stay away
Lest they ignite.
So many generations
Of incinerated lives,
This is not the time, they say,
For tolerance.
The books of dissent
Ignite at their touch,
Because, to them, what is human
Must be saved.