Someone Else’s Song
Someone Else’s Song I am a million, million people Talking all at once, with voices Raised in clamour, like maids At village-wells. I am a million, million deaths Pox-clustered, each a drying seed Someday to be shed, to grow for Someone else, a memory. I am a million, million births Flushed with triumphant blood, each a growing Thing that thrusts its long-nailed hands To scar the hollow air. I am a million, million silences Strung like crystal beads Onto someone else’s Song
Someone Else’s Song I am countless individuals All speaking together, with voices Raised in noise, like young women At village wells. I am countless deaths Clustered like pox, each a drying seed To eventually be shed, to grow into A memory for someone else. I am countless births Filled with victorious blood, each a growing Being that reaches with its long-nailed hands To mark the empty air. I am countless silences Strung together like crystal beads On someone else’s Song