I’ve spent some time
in disbelief –
with years to wonder why
mornings washed
a flood of tears –
yet not a one to dry

not a one to
understand –
and ne’er a will to know
beds made up with thistle
and left along
the road

with none to share
who can say
they knew far better than
those who dream of dying –
who walk a broken land

who decides
and who condemns
the ways for which we came
with maps we drew in darkness –
hurts we gave
our name

. . .