Or, as playwright Floy Quintos mournfully put it in a moving piece he posted on Facebook:
“I saw some souls the other night,/ moving sadly among masked revellers/ They did not delight in fistfuls of candy,/ or in good news from the distant shoals./ Their wails would not be silenced by the madness of the mob,/ or by the blaring promises of future glory./ They looked at me,/ and would not go away./ Not even when the parade of frantic pretender ghouls had passed.
“They did not ask much of me,/ these souls twice slain/ first by bullets,/ then by indifference.
“Asked the ghosts,/ Could I honor a memory/ of their dreams,/ or share regret for/ what they could have been?/ Would I call to them by name,/ and use no label?/ In the face of slander,/ would I mutter faint protest,/ a whispered aside,/ a break in the voice,/ a seething anger/ for all they had been denied?
“Not much, no?
“But I could not answer,/ for fear of the mob./ So, the poor things moved on/ increasing in number,/ but paler/ and fainter.â€
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