AFTER NINE HOURS I'M DRAINED OF WORDS AND THEY ARE DEAD

I lied. Eight hours

of poetry was not

enough, it took

nine to drain me,

own words and

words transformed,

and now in the chill

morning I dread

the toll of the night,

the harvest of human

flesh taken while I

wrote and transformed

the words of the exiles

and the dead, like some

lesser god of ancient myth,

trying to give amends

by turning the wronged

into a bird or a tree,

while bombs and missiles

rained and took away

the words from mouths

of entire families,

pens from the hands

of aspiring poets,

breaking their fingers

and breaking their skulls

and breaking their brains

and with them, breaking

the world. And now I

listen to silence, the cuckoo

that counted my years

is silent like the forms

under the shrouds,

the forms that moved

and spoke their fears

when I began.

29.03.2025

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