After
the final shot
silence lies within words -
you reach through it, a bloody mute
stillness.

The words,
half-dead, fractured
lie - blackened or bloated
or buried alive in snow's deep
whiteness.

On the
empty pages
of the lost words, you search
finding other tongues, lover tongues -
meanings.

Poet
without borders
you resurrect dead words,
breathe life into barely living
language.

In the
quest for language
we yearn for words of peace,
of love, and dancing, we hold hands,
singing.