Though weeks have passed, the wind is still heavy
with wailing from the crowd and the stench of decay.
The humid sun, glaring down from above,
worked like a catalyst for the flesh eating worms.
They are having a feast to celebrate
our negligence, below the rubble of death.
Some place too far away from the stench, you and me
with our faces puffed white sitting in a table, round,
in comfort opined on the matter, grave, with words
chiseled with care but our eyes belied the haughty frown.
Later, we too shall have our feast and talk
some more on the tragedy, a pair of wise heads
bloated with knowledge, memorized, nodding or shaking
and leave the empty plates truly enlightened.