Don’t blame it on the river,
it never asked for blood.
Its face changed
as each face tumbled.
You’ll never guess what they did, my dear.
They made metal shoes; quite artistic.
Now people stare, and listen
to tiny speakers, speaking of us.
Even worse, some write poems,
imagining the dull press of a muzzle
to the neck;
the hollow crack across the water
to another city.
How cultured they are.
Such feeling, such pity.
You must see the candles they’ve placed
where no feet would ever tread (quite pretty).
They come from far, and they draw close,
and eyes apply concern.
Most take pictures, whisper how terrible;
silently wonder why we knelt,
so passive, awaiting our turn.