Days on days I have spent
fortifying my silence, I have
covered the leakage of words
with memories, with images dying
covered in a moss on graves forgotten.
I have long written my silence, for you
to open the wound of words; in the small
openings of the wounds, the crevices of my
shelter melt in this writing. Don’t ask me to
open the door, not now! Come when you have
harvested the grief, tied a wound, uncovered
a shroud and turned a sword of your words.
Don’t come to me yet, my words will not
speak to you; they wallow in silence.
Let language force itself through this
blackhole, let it emerge unscathed in the
lost songs of memory, washed ashore
on rivers of blood,and wander and fall of the
edges of dying, decaying corpses with names
long forgotten. Let the language first
throw away all the labels and numbers which identified
You and me, let it grasp the memory of the home
You never returned. 
