In the end I’ve used so many,
but I am a man of few words.
I bring silence to a conversation.
My words do not ring
with the gigantic ring inside me.
Measure the love song
I sing for my children.
Tell harps how much music I hear.
Describe Mary
touching dawn with her eyes.
My true vocabulary
is a language of different sounds,
different meanings,
different voices.
It tells the floor of earth
where I’m standing.
The arches of the sky
how I struggle to be born.
And how much anguish
I must feel
when death buries me in quiet.