In Times of Death

In times of death, we speak as if they are there.
In the places where we always left them.
In the places where we now long for them to be.
When we’ve wandered far but found no footsteps,
Sung loud but found only the rattling shields and spear tips tempting rain, onto bowed necks and trembling frames.
Dreamt for peace, but thunder came; so, we’ve cursed ourselves, frightened we’ll lose.
Only then will we learn that the touch of water, flow and roar speaks of a humbler muse.

In times of death, we listen as if they are there.
In the gentle tunes, riddling the inlet back to the mountain,
Oceans to the droplet plumed and earthquakes to the blink of an eye.
When we’ve followed nought but silence to our rest before the dawn,
Only our ceasefire and worn sandals will pour scorn on the beggar breaking bread with the vandal.
Though our eyes may not know their tune or its making,
We will see the touch of skin, tears, and laughter are ours for the taking.

In times of death, speak not to the dead,
But to the living as they are to be.
For the nest of ashes will flower anew,
And though it will not be us who continue holding the hand of time. Untold,it will be those who draw their line in the sand with the youth we cannot renew.
They will speak as if we are there and listen as if we rhythm gentle tunes.
Only then will they earn the touch of the sun, its hues, and the new day it imbues.
In times of death, speak for now. Speak for always.