A Golden Shovel poem using the opening lines of The Waste Land
(Part I. The Burial of the Dead) by T.S. Eliot:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
A time for rebirth, a new beginning, fresh flowers, life, April is
—but not always a time of rejoicing—it can be the cruelest month.
Ask the father of a rose, a thorn among columbines, not breeding lilacs
anymore. Ask the others claiming Christ, their voices too out of the dead,
cry through blood-soaked ground, How long, how long! must this land
endure the violence? Is it not enough mixing memory
after memory from so many April massacres fueled by hatred and desire
to inflict atrocities on America’s children, whose souls are still stirring
in the fallen ash of terror? Their killers have their dull roots
anchored in the false god of hatred. Evil can only be washed out with spring rain
of forgiveness. Where have all the flowers gone? No winter kept us warm,
ever, but there is the rose of Sharon, the lily of the valley, covering Earth.
Petals of righteousness fragrance the air. Yet they remain forgotten in forgetful snow
—a wasteland waiting to be resurrected with all those prayers, I have a dream, feeding
our hearts
with hope. Let the child grow wild like a weed, a little
life kept. April is when they killed Jesus too, the one who could bring life
to desiccated bones, and hopeless souls to spring up as trees once cursed with dried tubers.
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See also The strange seasonality of violence: Why April is ‘the beginning of the killing season’ by Michael S. Rosenwald (Washingtomn Post, April 4, 2016).

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