In the shadow of the unconscionable,
in the clutch of the uncontrollable,
in the cries of the inconsolable,
when we learned we are not invulnerable,
in the bedlam of the unbelievable,
in the belly of the unbreathable,
in the breach of the once unbreachable,
when we saw the inconceivable,
in the fog of the unfathomable,
in the face of the unforeseeable,
in the flames of the unforgivable,
when nothing remains inviolable,
in the taint of the intolerable,
in the presence of the imponderable,
in the hush of the unwhisperable,
we have endured.
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Author Notes
This is a poem, one sentence to be read straight through,
that is about humans everywhere who have been witness to war.
The place does not matter. The time does not matter. Which war does not matter. The human spirit is all that matters.
My father fought in the Second World War. Though he was a consummate story teller, he never once told me stories of the war. I have always wondered what he endured that was so unwhisperable he could not even share it.
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