I write to you from the outskirts of a massacre.

The air smells of blood.

Tonight’s silence tastes of dried up hatred.

Right now while I hammer on the keyboard

others are hammering their chests crying

and they bang their heads against walls and against walls of thin air.

While they call out, tormented, into the ears of their dead.

I call out to you through my keyboard

as if I were bereaved,

 the widow and the orphan.

I call out to you in the fever of fresh pain.

I write so that I can call you,

not to make you reply or come,

but to check how much calling I have left.