Grasping shadows with outstretched hands,

I stand before a trembling crowd

whispering, in my own silent language, the

story of my death. With violent gestures and

the passion of an anguished lover, I tell a

sea of eyes and open mouths how pain feels,

and after one is numb to pain, how little death

actually hurts. Words fall tersely from my

mouth, my speech hindered by remembrances

of unspeakable tortures for crimes that were

not really crimes at all. Overcome by

memories, I kneel to pray for deliverance,

begging the compassion and understanding

of the people before me, just as I had done

once years ago before God. Now, here, I can

feel their silent sympathy, but I will always

remember that, in spite of my prayers, the soldiers

still

broke down

the door.