Why

why should i write
when all has been said,
i can just give voice
and colour to words

why talk about the clock
when it is ticking
day and night
with tick and tock

why describe kisses
turning them tasteless
or trees standing tall
to make them small

why narrate cruelty
when i cannot reach
the torturer’s soul
nor make deeds undone

why go on about death
when it is unavoidable,
why tell tales on courage
when it needs doing

why complain on fate
in place of acting
and why pray with words
what  only silence can say

why dissect feeling
when it flows,
why babble on happiness
and not accept sadness

the language of love,
in passion, in joy, in pain,
must be shared in pure
heart, listening to the

wind in the valley and
on top of the mountains
in clear skies, above the sea,
we shall sound a horn

through the fog of our minds,
to be witness, to share
what is, to warn what may be,
to remember the forgotten,

this to call words to do.
words not being letters
but signs and signals,
notations of human songs,

spoken a living thread
pulsing, pervading
what is invisible,
changing in the in between.