Somewhere there are omens.
Somewhere all the bodies have been buried, and survivors keep watch
Over skeletons they also had been.
The children are raising each other.
Bodies are buried; survivors keep watch.
Somewhere the earth is burning, eager for new skin.
Each child is raising another;
Music and meaning are patient.
The earth is just burning.
There are terrible questions—
Somewhere music is patient, and meaning.
Somewhere those who had been slaughtered feel unanswerable longing.
We have terrible questions,
And those who slaughtered have longing.
Those who have been slaughtered lie unanswered.
Languages lift from ashes like these
And those who slaughtered feel the same longing.
Hope comes home, somewhere in us;
Language lifts from ash.
Rightly, we are cautious.
Somewhere hope hovers over
What we would have done, whatever did we do.
Rightly, we are cautious;
Stories everywhere.
Forrest Hamer
