The Sons Have Come Home (A Poem)

Silent boxes, grimly borne.
Underground torrents of tears suddenly burst up outwards
Heart-wrenching sobs tear through the air:
The sons have come home.

Clustering support, rallying comfort,
rays of light in an overwhelming darkness;
the pain of the excruciating unknown
has changed to embody their worst fear, and their secret silent hope:
The sons have come home.

Betrayed by murderers who cheer in excitement
as we give them back their men of evil to return to their wickedness;
in jubilation and celebrated hatred,
their monsters have gone home.
In two deathly silent coffins,
our sons have come home.

Their cruelly silenced soon deaths meant
no pain, no suffering, for these two gruelling long years;
but the moment-by-moment hair-whitening torture
that their close ones suffered
is only ended today,
when the sons have come home.

Ease your hearts, o Israel,
for the sons have come home;
cry, o Israel,
for how the sons have come home.

Seats are empty, places silent,
but spaces in hearts cannot be re-filled.
G-d, spare the mourners more suffering;
comfort them in their silent finality,
now that their sons have come home.