The soldier like the poet is made of milk.
On the wooden plank, he awaits the start of the fight
Amongst all the other lifeless objects
In this room
His bones wave at me.
The soldier’s need to speak precedes the need to listen.
The poet’s need to sleep precedes the need to rest.
The poet like the soldier does not wave back.
Once gone, forever hidden
Behind a thick screen of smoke
Which now separates our worlds.
Unable to find the way back
He collects the very dry tear on tissue paper
And builds a beautiful house
For the silence which follows the final departure.