To the Editor:

Please print
these the cries of anguish.

My sons are dead
dead when I awake
dead when I fall asleep
dead during the day
dead at night
dead.

I see my sons flung from the heavens side by side,
colored fluttering hail slamming into
soft Scottish pastures.
I can no longer look into the heavens.

I see my sons in body bags
bones shattered, skulls crushed,
flesh macerated,
unrecognizable, unbearable,
identifiable only by tattoos.

I see soft Scottish pastures pockmarked with holes
my sons mark on the earth.

I see fine young Scotchmen slogging through a grim harvest
soulless bodies
dead dreams.

I see pecuniary pollution
fouled suffering
fouled consolation.

I see my sons sacrificed on an alter of evil
without mercy
without honor
without dignity.

Any you, mr Reagan and mr Schultz, may God let you
see what I see.
And you, mr Plaskett and mr Alpert, may God let you
see what I see.
And you, the murderers of my sons, may God cleanse your souls
and forgive you.