Some stillness floats on laden skies
Like a ferrous grip of binding chains.

In the still waters of a chasing lake,
The shores lay abandoned by fleeting oars.

Boats anchored languishing in moan,
Those float still like a grieving wreck.

And silently crawl over reflections dark,
That day when every shriek becomes a crime.

And the inflicted have no right to mourn,
That day when every sigh becomes a breach.

The bereaved are chased like heisters of silence,
And in denial quiescence suspends by the noose.

That day when the skies are strangulated to mute,
They shall gather and pour their grief.

That day !


that day