for the first time the geese are silent
you can hear the grass making its slow way
to the heart of things; the dirt crumble
the itchy drip the rain makes, rock to rock
the underground quiver of a mole
the none-sound fire makes when it fails to ignite
the soft cracking of the next heart to break
for the last time the geese are silent
you can hear the grass making its slow way
to the heart of things; the dirt crumble
the itchy drip the rain makes, rock to rock
the underground quiver of a mole
the none-sound fire makes when it fails to ignite
the soft cracking of the next heart to break
for the last time the geese are silent
