Forgetting the Tiananmen Square Massacre for 30 Years Robbed of life and liberty in open air, Young citizens ran out of breath inside the Square. Hot bullets opened skin to pump bright flesh holes bare. A follow-up of tanks made sure no space was spare. The man who shuffled shopping bags and stopped a tank Stayed famous 30 years although his presence sank As slickly as the fleshy dead who never stank But were removed, like hidden debt in some big bank. The daylight robbery that's laundered by the state Removing people's histories and aired debate Has no remorse or memories to show to date In law courts, government departments, embassies, Confucius Institutes, and universities. That forced amnesia: the communist disease. China Tribunal An independent tribunal into forced organ harvesting from prisoners of conscience in China, headed by Sir Geoffrey Nice, will give its closing statements in the United Kingdom this month. Who needs metaphor when facts appear __To crumble human nature and divine; When all the presentations witnessed here __Show conscience severed from a squirming spine? The communists’ wrongdoings are severe, __They butcher spirit – China’s, yours and mine. Precision questioning weighs up, makes clear, __They’ve crossed a boundary, an ethics line. This fine judicial autopsy can spear, __Shine truth’s sharp needles through the Devil’s shrine. Pin down its smog and mirrors, calmly steer, __Evaluate through China’s soul’s decline. Unless we have a motive and a mind __To scour the shelves to find where truth falls short, Our soul food menus offer husk and rind __For thoughtless eating smacks of falling short. In this Tribunal, helpers helped to bind __The evidence behind the wide report: Too much is missing, now, from humankind __If organs leave fit bodies like a wart. With sticks and carrots, worldviews are kept blind, __Media and business are made sport, And governments are made to walk behind __Red banners that obscure how sins distort. But this Tribunal’s not for medal wins, __Have one side or another be lined up To wear pimped laurels like posed manikins – __It stirs all comers in its brewing cup: The perpetrators, ugly as their sins, __Who were invited but did not turn up; The fazeless faces and the radiant skins __Of interveners who will not give up; The data drones who’ve clattered in the bins __Of callous wasters and have counted up; Escapees speaking as themselves not twins __Of stories media do not pick up; All are arrayed in person to refute __The diktat of the givers of abuse Who spoon out organs like the seeds of fruit __And leave the flesh to rot, still boned but loose. Were lungs and livers drilled out for the loot __To suck the prices, dump the fibrous juice, To help some near-death paying guest reboot __From vitals that the donors still had use? Even half-way through there’s no dispute: __The Party’s organ harvesting’s in use. But this Tribunal can’t arrest its root, __Nor sentence, lock away, or knot a noose. For that’s another step, another task. __Here’s stored the findings from the evidence Where higher offices can search and ask. __Here lie the stories of life’s severance. Here are hard scrutinies of laid out facts, __Set arguments and probing inference From reams of videos and written tracts __Set here with conscious human confidence. May these give help and resolution’s ease __To those infected by the lack of sense: Survivors, lost, affected families, __And those bound down in its continuance. Damian Robin is a writer and editor living in the United Kingdom.