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