I
A thousand years answer my ochre heart
through the ends of my dead grandmother’s hair.
Stars and my grandfather
are anchored in this darkness
patterned without passion,
and made for a reverence to last.

II
In the ponds of dirty water
the sun beats slowly
like an exhausted sparrow.
The air smells of sick, mortal children.
Stone feels warm as a pillow.
Why do I think of endless, ancient wisdom?

III
The childhood never leaves us.
A fire warms only those
who have their arms to trust.

IV
These brick-batted roads of violence
which go on breathing after dark,
I can feel the air that wounds.

V
Schools, too, rest on silence.
What is childhood then?
Like lepers dragging legs
louder than words,
all dead
the simple meat.