Her echo, long ago sounding in the land, clouds, and sea,
doesn't bounce in the circles any more
she is gone, long silent, long far away.
Her echo is not amidst the Egyptian ruins, or the Aztec Monuments
or the AIDS Quilt lying amid the silent criers,
I was listening, traveling for her, for them.
Their echo doesn't bounce in circles anymore
doesn't fly lacing the wet wind with their touch, voice...
they are gone, long silent, long far away.
Their echo can't be heard from the highest mountain top
or grassiest one-tree'd hill in Ramallah
I was listening, traveling for them, for her.
My echo noiseless, motional, weak, rarely stolid
like seaweed, silent, floating atop endless currents
love is gone, long silent long far away.
My echo mute, the sea's motion washing her away, bringing her back,
washing
them away...
the sadness drifts amidst my flight, lacing the clouds
with her touch and with their memories, again, again, again...