When the ghosts of the silenced speak,
when the shadow of the aborted rise over us
will we find our way out of that darkness?
Who will save us when we call?
If I don't look, they don't exist,
if I analyze and sterilize a thing to dust,
shall I find in the mirror anything is left—
I wiped my mouth; I have done no wrong.
To murder, and because the murder is successful, I have not murdered. I have washed my hands of the blood.
You can play with words all you want, calling life a curse and death a blessing, but whatever “blessings” you can claim, whatever rights to autonomy you have procured, the question remains, “Do you have the right to commit murder?”
Tale Told 