A hundred pale deaths stand in unison
singing hymns in the sisterhood of sorrow.
A garden of shade
where silence walks by itself.
Where love lies in bouquets by the stones,
and a page turns up blank
for a small boy to fashion his letters.
Words will dart among the signs,
and the first poem of his soul
will be written,
and no one will hear the chorus
in the background singing,
preparing the earth for the tree
that is being planted.