Who among us hears their own bereavement?
Who hears the last train coming?
Who hears the final toll?
Not we, the breathing- but we sense him.
What sound will he have?
Where will he sleep?
Ask the arid wasteland spreading out like dead skin.
Ask the bloodstained footpaths if he beckons them.
May we ask our distant days if we might enter?
The universe, over the sky floating ghostly,
Might it hear our pleading?
Who hears the last bomb dropping?
Who hears the final click?
Who, if not the breathing?
Ask the sovereign and man-speckled ocean creature,
Ask the eagle if she senses man’s bridled undoing.
Who among us hears their own bereavement?
Who hears the last train coming?
Who hears the final toll?
Not we, the breathing- but we sense him.
What shape will he have?
Where is his weapon?
mrp
