About suffering, the past is never wrong.
Whether the oozing blood filled killing
fields of Ypes or Passiondale, or refined,
efficient calculation of Treblinka or Dachau.
Or the torturous death of Christian martyrs,
the stories much the same, whatever glorious
name we give, you die but once and man
knows best the many myriad ways...
The inhumanity of
man on man
enduring
age on age,
agony on agony
piling up
suffering,
generation
on generation.
‘Visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the
children, and upon the children's children...’
Forever
stacking up
the blood
spattered
corpses,
of ages past,
men, women,
children...
Tears of loss, voices of despair, echo back through time.
Forever increasing...
Each day
Each month
Each year.
Never ceasing for a moment for suffering never needs to rest,
nor takes the time to stop and think.
But always marching ever onward, blind and blinkered, deaf and mute,
feeding on dissolution, pain, degradation, sorrow and destruction absolute.
