March 22, 2013 by Sez
This poem is about a tragedy, and about the role the British press played.
Her name was Lucy Meadows, and she died
Alone and in despair because of hate.
Oh journalists who mocked her life, and lied
So pained and solemn, now that it’s too late.
Yet even now, you cannot get it right:
Her name was Lucy Meadows. She was “she”.
You hounded her, and took away her right
To be the woman she was born to be.
You said the children “wouldn’t understand”.
That Lucy’s truth would only cause them pain.
She died. Her blood still wet upon your hands,
Go to her grieving pupils, and explain.
The change we seek is faint and distant yet.
Her name was Lucy Meadows. Don’t forget.