I am not at war I tell myself
As I hold these captured silences
As trophies in my war of repose
My hands are too large for these shackles
But fit neatly into your sadness
I am not lost
Waiting to be tamed
I have become
the residue of the chase
How many lives
walk through us in pain
As we wrest control of this climb
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem