by Julie Berry
When murder stalks through midnight halls
To snatch from peace its grisly bite,
Drunk on its carnal hour, and fear,
Braver men and women
Will disperse murder’s dark --
Swarm in to stanch wounds,
Pursue measured justice,
Pray for the dead, and the wounded,
Honor those gone,
Comfort the weeping,
Strengthen those left afraid.
(We cannot forget:
Lonelier are they whose oppressors are less in love with fame,
Who strike in alleys, or lit apartments for which they hold
keys.
Justice and comfort keep full calendars.
They sometimes miss appointments.)
Those who’ve died are you and me.
My son, your daughter, our baby.
And so we grieve, and pray
A comfort broader than we can bestow
Will rest upon those left behind.
Even the murderer is my son, and yours.
Then let us be slow in our sprint toward hate.
In this may we take some peace:
Murder, that thought it could destroy,
Will see Aurora rising.
