Language aspires in redolent
circles pulsating but never reaching the far
shores draped in willow and moss
The tension of words not spoken, fobidden,
matched only by that of the words we dared to speak.
Never spoken but reduced to symbols depeted of power
some. Like a school of fish convulsed on a stony beach
tearing the protective film. We see they also bleed red.
Still there are some that escape, committed,
flying if only briefly before falling to a gravity
we did not see yet feared all the same.
The stillness of our anger subsides.
Another history unknown.
We have no other choice.
We have no other words.
We deny even these.
Hymn of tempering
11 hours ago