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The Pit
Folder:
The Voices of Stones I cannot write your poem
I will never know the conviction in your eyes
I cannot know the quietus in your breath,
or what was written in your skin
I will never be the words on your heart
which weep from your veins
A suffering – unimaginable
cannot be partial
cannot be partison
in the epitaph of your pith
The living stones on which you walked
The wounds of the deer – bleeding in the wood
They will proclaim your ballad
They will write your epic
On the ceiling of the dome
your moments will be
A sadness – that cannot be reached
with thought, nor sight, nor language
Your poems – are written on the broken tick
Your poems – are written on the eyes of God
Your poems
are yours
alone
