Lynn White

Death of Empathy

When empathy died

the soldiers could dance

in the streets they’d cracked

wearing the underwear of the women

whose homes they had destroyed.

And dance they did with pride.

When empathy was dead 

the soldiers could take children’s toys

from the rubble of their bombed homes

and repurpose them as tank trophies

mascots to be flaunted with pride

while the street cracked

under the weight.

When they had killed empathy 

the soldiers could shoot babies

in the head or gut - they chose,

and someone’s daughter 200 times, 

or 300 - they could choose.

And they filmed it with pride

from the street’s rubble and cracks.

When empathy was murdered

the soldiers could capture children

and imprison them in cages,

one metre square,

or whatever they chose

until they told them 

what they did not know

and then laugh with pride

in the smooth Israeli streets.

When empathy was dead and buried

deep down below the streets’ cracks

and only silence could be heard

Israel was supreme,

a supreme being, 

godlike in its power.

Human rights were dead,

humans would follow

any of them

even all 

would fall

through the streets of cracks

until the un-cracked power and pride

was cracked.

Cracked

I’d walked down the street many times

and not noticed the cracks.

I’d driven down there many times

in both day-time and night-time

and not noticed them.

But something seen so often 

may become unseen

so that night I climbed higher

to see the street from above.

A mosaic lay below me, 

a city of cracked squares.

Streets cracking 

where there

were no cracks

before.

Streets broken and fragmented

their cracks and splits

a metaphor

for a city cracking up,

for a world falling apart.

In That Space

Concrete and glass,

shiny stainless steel,

reflecting images

of distorted strollers,

shoppers

and coffee shoppers

passing each other by.

Walking purposefully 

or aimlessly 

footfalling

on the spotless tiles,

still damp

from their overnight

mechanical

wash and brush up.

Texting or talking

into phones

clamped to ears.

But then the street cracks open,

lifts its cheap veneer

so you see behind

the facades

and the cracks reveal

another place

and its people

living

in that space.

A glimpse of narrow streets

of tenements and courts

and terraces

with washing hanging

and children playing,

women gossiping.

Human sounds and smells,

and animal too, 

but working or wild,

not petted.

A different time

in that same space.

if you look through the cracks.