It spurs the hope
in absent voice for a deaf ear.
You will wash the ancestor’s prism
for a natural death of a fault.

Through me I skim the frozen
lake of tears.

Maybe I will watch the tree
for some sanity to produce
the blossoms -

in the starved faith of a
wanderer who will not speak
for himself.

All life he was trying to explain
without words,
the enormous efforts he was
putting to lay down his hands
on truth.