These words are rivets
that steel our flapping hearts
when the wind dies: that
is all that will matter;
those etched, scribed,
shaped and moulded
linguistics of a broken age.
Add them up and throw
them to the leering sky
that refuses to break its
judgemental stare.
In a world away they
listen and are awed
to tears, while we dine
and chime crystalled
liqueur that only
makes us all the
more mute.