"For My Sister."
Far away, my sister is moving in her crib.
The dead ones are like that, always the last to quiet.
Because, however long they lie in the earth,
they will not learn to speak but remain
uncertainly pressing against the wooden bars.
So small, the leaves hold them down.
Now, if she had a voice, the cries of hunger
would be beginning.
I should go to her.
Perhaps, if I sang very softly, her skin so white,
her head covered with black feathers.