The wind,
Strums the strings,
Of the trees,
Tortured, distorted harps,
Their notes float gently into the mute night.
No sound, no sound...
No children's gentle breathings,
No tender lovers' murmurings,
No men and women talking, laughing...
Only the bowed trees
As the invisible Harpist
Plucks the dark, bent branches,
The notes sob in the blackness,
And tremble in the silence,
Their moans echo in the shivering stars.
Wind cupped, weeping, bitter
Notes, that ask, why does evil stand tall,
Why do the good lay fallen...
Mary Naylor
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dirge-for-darfur/
