You tread softly
As if the earth is made of snow.
Gesturing broadly to your guest:
“This is where our great memorial will be.”
You lower your gaze;
Your guest follows your lead.
The memory of war pierces you;
Your tears drop like blood.
Pause.
Poetry is rising.
Our graves beneath you:
An inverted heaven.
A sliver of a sunflower
Unfolds to meet the sun.
Children of freedom:
Dip your pens
Deep into our souls;
We have made ink.
