The exhumation
of our consciousness
is a gradual incline
of granite in mourning.
Our gratitude
for your doing the
dirty deed
is hardly compensatory
and yet you
wheelchair
into our arms
eager
to receive the
retarded welcome.
But like the
inconsistent facts of war
the rhetoric
does not equal
the action.
Recognition is still
missing in action,
forever a prisoner of antiquated
peace signs long
amputated.