The voice

In the still potential

of the night,

I hear your

fragile voice

calling from today,

crying from the

savage and sacred history

of long ago.


Is it memory?


Is it the echoes

of suffering

that lay heavy in the wind

and never cease?


All I can know

is that your voice

is resident

in the thin air

of evening’s chill,

and takes me

to your pain,

draws me to

your eyes

that petition

with resolve,

like your voice.


And I think I hear

your plea to never let the

memories go,

to always hear

the echoes of

the afflicting haunted lament.