Poems

A Voice?

Our necks have sharpened
            towards the morning
but the night approaches
            digging the foundation of the house(s),
                        and the wall of minutes
                        the house is surrounded by.
 
Death is celebrated/praised/honored
by that time that was spread out
                        till
each (thing) of the past has been forgotten
except for the dry leaves that dried
in the Tree, from time to time, moving/trembling
 
   And who would hear the voice?
   As if there was a person in the sky/heaven
to pay for our blood that was poured
                        and poured out

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