carving our healing

Part I: The Scars We Carve

I recall the night they dragged my brother from our yard,

Shouts echoing like hammers—“He took what wasn’t his!”

Before a single fact could clear the smoke of outrage,

We watched his world unravel, bit by broken promise.

His eyes, once steady, trembled under glaring streetlights—

Neighbours we trusted spoke venom without proof.

A makeshift mob demanded blood for a rumor’s sake,

And trust in every courthouse crumbled under our cries.

Weeks later, the truth crawled out on timid feet:

The stolen goods lay elsewhere, the culprit another face.

But our town was hollowed, voices hushed in guilt’s shadow,

And every handshake bore the weight of a soul half–lost.

First, we paused—to honor pain without punishing a name,

To sift the shards of anger through patient, questioning hands.

We sat in circles, voices low, admitting how fast we leapt,

Inviting those we hurt to speak, and bearing what we’d done.

We built our justice like a slow–growing crystal:

One clear fact at a time, each layer laid with care.

Dialogue became our salve, reparation our vow,

Reconciliation the light guiding us back from despair.

In our waiting, we found strength:

A verdict delayed may yet save a soul from our hand.

No mob’s roar, no instant flash—just steady steps toward truth,

And in that quiet process, we reclaimed our better selves.