Silence
Silence — you see it, you hit it with
the nailed coffin with a dead man with his choking breath.
You crawl close to him during the nights
you ask questions yet his voice is lost for years.
He has forgotten to speak, and you only listen
to the creaking of the stars and ethereal domes.
You hear the rustle of all the secret sounds
that cover the rattling of the machine guns.
Silence. Mother, holy whore who has hidden the meaning
of the end in its uterus since the beginning.
I stare through the window: airplanes cut,
into pieces, angels upon the open skies.
Manolis Aligizakis 