A HALF-FINISHED RUN
Silence—
a scream
that has forgotten how to cry out.
The ground is riddled with craters;
dust and debris drift
between the footsteps.
Breath
cut short
the moment it meets gunpowder.
A child’s shoe…
Left behind mid-stride,
the run is over.
This is no game.
The soul
does not ask death its name;
its scent arrives,
it flinches at its voice.
The earth,
a prayer whose recitation
has been shattered,
does not take every name
into its bosom.
The world
is still on edge.
Peace
is not just a word;
it is the heaviest truth
we learn in order to survive.
THE VOICELESS RUMBLE
It was September—
night was drawn over us;
we were lulled
into an ash-scented sleep.
Day turned.
We opened our eyes.
Dawn was blind.
Winter settled
in the hollow of our chests;
something inside us froze.
As this voiceless rumble went on,
mornings
were chiseled a little more
at the windows.
If I say
light must find a way through,
melting the ice within us,
it must flow.
Deeply runs the water
over the stone of silence.
We must hear the first crack
and emerge from darkness,
following the trace of a voice.
Waters will surely find their bed;
time is the witness to this flow.
This voiceless rumble will cease,
and humanity
will recognize its own voice
once more.
