If this is a lament

They speak of a land that never was,

a non-existent tongue.

There is no utterance,

no words.


If we're put on earth

to understand each other –

who can make sense of death?


Explain how the mountains stole breath,

or translate the darkness

that has fallen?


Who can say what burgeons

in a child's dream?


Flapping out of an ancient tale,

birds' wings bear down

on me – and skin's


akin to stone

as the old women used to say.

When darkness falls


beyond the mountains,

the people I remember look to me

in pain. My words are elegy.


If this is a lament,

we haven't even

begun to cry.

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