The Confessional Wall

The last time I saw grandpa,
he was barely standing,
leaning against my bedroom wall,
mostly lamenting -- as if demanding.

I heard him whisper some things
to the ears of that wailing wall.
And he began telling stories which cannot be told.
Words cannot be spoken in thick voice of blood;
there's no fluid grammar for that kind of clot.

As he finished spilling
his secrets one by one,
specter of red-fezed ghouls
began to rage on.
And in less than an hour,
God bless his soul -- he was gone.

Rest in peace, grandpa.

"They double killed your grandma,
right before my blind eyes,
but I saw it all, clearly I recall,
through the lens of my mind's eye,"
as he confided his grief to the wall.

As I looked at him in silence,
I noticed those eyes of his,
which have seen nothing but dungeon
since 1915,
still managed to swell
with substance of sorrow,
as his weak body trembled
for what's yet to follow.

"I watched the whole thing play out,
though my eyes were plucked,
using my ear-sight instead,
as a new source of light," 
and as the Turks slaughtered
with demonic might,
that is what remembers my mind," he stressed.

... and he broke down and cried.

"bear with me, my dear child,
I'll tell you how grandma died,
though sometimes I wonder,
if there's a thing called God.
Well, why didn't He interrupt?"
he towered his voice and yammered.

"Forgive me God, I cry your mercy ...
I still believe in YOU, You, you, y--,"
he lowered his voice and stammered.

 "I heard a crying baby
sliced out of your grandma's belly.
The newborn's womb-to-tomb journey,
thus ended in a hurry."

As he bewailed in pain,
he went on to say,

"They cut down your grandma,
and baby-uncle too;
 in one stroke of the scimitar
 the Turks butchered two."