byLance Henson
somewhere in the moonlit night
just before dawn
someone lights a candleshe is passing her hands over
the picture of a son a daughter
perhaps a husbanda face gone into the mists of war
they are called
the disappearedthese faces upon a hundred walls
all over the world
appearing in a thousand demonstrationscarried in the streets by women
the birds that fly overhead
recognize the dark tracks
of their weeping
and add their song to their own
listen
they are singingMilan, January 30, 1997