the eyes of our fathers

deafened
to the voice
of another
dimming
through the years
one speaking
and the other speaking
tho neither hearing
not really–
what is said
nor, tho louder–
that, which is
unsaid
and neither
even noticing
on which day
it is
that the words
simply stop
but they do
only the coarse whispers
of spring-love’s memory
staying
long into the dark-winter evenings
this, our white-robe martyrdom
this, our crimson-palm promise
and suddenly
when remembering
the eyes
of our fathers
the eyes
of our mothers
dimming
through the years
finally
their silence
becomes our own

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