Friday, December 16, 2011

And We Do Not Cry Out

without the gift of quick.
In this dark,
a crowd slumbers by.

In this silence, sounds and
echoes come to quit.
Whom do we grieve,
one by one, and many,

in our bereavement?
In time’s draining away,
we no longer wish to say,
for the naming comes too late.

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