To whom this poet shall read,
To whom shall he write?
To you? To I who is always shy?
To earth, to sky?
To the living lie?
To endless search for love lost?
To minuets and hours inside the belly of the beast? To West or East?
To friends who treaded this thorny path, bled and smiled and went away?
To secrets hidden and revealed, to visions across this lonely field?
To truth remaining after we die?

Ask not the bullets where they come from,
Watch them weep in the air,
They have seen his eyes, his smile, his hair.
He was all of life? But life after he fell remained!
Haunting those of us who silently watched.