A Notebook From 1967

Leather-bound messages,

              traveled from hands to hands 

and arrived here,

              in an antique store;

a display of a turbulent past,

unclear now

on yellow pages, where

a downpour of thoughts had fallen

and a roar of raging words—

                      silenced,

after almost fifty years, 

by a red price tag.

Silence In The Morning

The building is closed;

The cafe we used to go to is closed;

7-11 is closed , nobody goes there anymore;

No bells will toll,

the chapel has been quiet for a century.

Only a woman with sand-colored hair walks by,

slowly, slowly, 

and wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

We are outside in the yard, trying to figure out 

the scorching silence in this big city.

On the walls that surround us, 

red characters are minacious and ready to lash us away

– red characters crying destruction.