I c e

The waiting is the worst.

The silence is even worse,

And the shudders

Whenever it’s broken by a convoy passing by.

 

It is springtime, and outside

The whole wide world is coming alive.

The trees put on green birthday gowns,

And a quarrel of sparrows sings of lust and of love,

Little shadows with our fates beneath their wings.

They are falling, falling in love for whoever

To their feeble bird hearts sings.

 

The watching is the worst,

And the trembling is the worst,

As we are waiting,

Staring at the driveway and the shadows in the sky.

 

My mother once told me

That three bullets make one life.

The first one flies for careless fun,

The second for necessity,

The third the moment that you die.

She sent us through the desert sun to run

From perils that she’d undergone,

But bullets fly faster than feet and human dreams –

The flight has started from the womb

And ends with the barrel of a gun.

 

The sparrows scatter –

Now the wondering is the worst.

What may have scared them,

Made them fly?

 

Not what is coming,

But when,

When,

When.

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