The silence strikes again like faint flint sparks,
That do not readily open up in fires of dry sticks
Of our old men, behind deer running for arrows
From caves of early pictures, with a blazing sun
In the day and a moon at night, in liquid silence. The silence of rain falls on the night, on crickets
In corners of homes, along with silent brooms,
Brooms that will play song with the road at dawn
Of women whose eyes are limpid pools of silence.
The silence of words strikes, their images silent
In their fury, passions of a deep night, like waves
That broke on lonely beaches with sleeping gulls,
The silence of death on eyes closed, on seeing .