Cry Cry Cry
Cry, cry cry for the Beloved Country.
Cry the Divided Country
Cry; cry, cry, cry; Cry 96 tears; cry 96 million tears.
Cry while George’s guitar gently weeps.
Cry while my guitar gently weeps.
I hear millions of voices, crying for someone to listen.
Cry me a River. Cry for the children. Cry for the refugees. Cry for the victims.
Cry for the abused, the unjustly accused, the unfairly used.
Cry for the Injustice.
Cry, cry, cry for George Floyd’s family. Cry for Freddie Gray.
Cry, cry for Brionna’s people. Cry for Arbery.
Cry for Sandy Hook and Littleton.
Cry for Mariupol, for Kiev and for Kharkhiv.
Cry for Ukraine.
Cry for Russia.
Cry for Buffalo.
Cry for Sarejevo, for Toronto and for Orlando.
Cry for baby Roe and baby Coe. Cry for Texas. Cry for Georgia.
Cry for our Supreme Court. Cry for Congress. Cry for our President.
Cry for January 6.
Cry for Charlottesville.
Cry for Dallas. Cry for Jackie, for Carolyn and JohnJohn.
Cry for Martin and Medgar and Malcolm.
Cry for the H-bomb, the A-bomb, the fire bomb.
Cry for Hiroshima; cry for Nagasaki.
Cry for Jerusalem.
Cry for Gaza and for Ramallah.
Cry for Calvary and for Calgary
Cry not for me, but for yourselves and for your children.
Jesus wept, so why not you and me?
Yet, yet, and yet . . .
In the midst of these 96 million tears I hear, in the distance, the plaintive voice of a maiden:
Sierra Rose sees; she feels, she notices, weeps, realizing we’re born into a crying world.
Yet she sings. Sierra Rose sings: Cry
“I hear millions of voices
Crying for someone to listen . . .”
And if that’s not enough crying for one day, cry for Custer and for Sitting Bull.