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.