Was it a decade after Napolo
I met you, friend?
No matter.
We lived to tell the story around the fire
in whispers and behind locked doors.
We are going to laugh together again
with empty mouths,
and dead eyes:
grimaces echoing hollowed minds.
Review what is left unsaid,
and, after we have parted,
we will know
what it is we wanted to say
before you noticed the dullness in my eyes
and I, the emptiness of your mouth,
before the art of saying nothing
in a mountain of words
interrupted our conversation.
In those days, my friend,
martyrs were left unburied,
heroes were coffined alive or fled.
Our tears remained unshed:
We did not know they had died.
No one told us who had gone.
These tears, my friend, are wrung
from a heart shattered
by the apocalypse
that was Napolo.
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