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Dancing souls around a tree,

their spines shine in the fog.

The names, and the pics of when they lived

surround me as a buried womb.

A rainbow, under their pouring memories,

appears and then our stories

become one; and a murmuring river

fed by this ghost rain

gushes from darkness and washes my heart.

“Do you lead me to

the pyre where my offers can be burnt?

Where the peace I perceive

will find me also when I’m gone?”

I ask.

“Mute are the only fitting

gloves for our hands; our action

can’t be heard.”

So I sing with my knees on the cold soil,

I sing grateful to the night and its foils.

I sing alone.