WEBVTT

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"For My Sister."

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Far away, my sister
is moving in her crib.

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The dead ones are like that,
always the last to quiet.

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Because, however long
they lie in the earth,

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they will not learn
to speak but remain

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uncertainly pressing
against the wooden bars.

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So small, the leaves
hold them down.

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Now, if she had a voice,
the cries of hunger

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would be beginning.

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I should go to her.

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Perhaps, if I sang very
softly, her skin so white,

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her head covered
with black feathers.

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