Poems

The Voice?

Our throats sharpen
towards morning
but night approaches
      digging the foundations of the house
             and the wall of minutes
             that surrounds the house

Death is honoured
by time stretched out
until everything past has been forgotten
other than the leaves that dried
on the tree, that tremble, now and then

   Who would have heard the voice?
   As if there were a person in heaven
to pay for our blood that was poured
      and poured out

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