Unlike the rest they’re in the among the dust
to mute the way pictures often drip with silence.
In that unseen spot my eyes will never trust;
so often burned with red remembrance.

A picture worth a thousand words is true.
In so many ways the thing may come to light;
so bleak, the words are left with what they knew.
Without the seeing I still shall find the sight.

I do not look for comfort’s sake; comfort it doesn't bring.
Perhaps it is but my mistake, I hear the shadows sing.

Such things I should denounce, dismiss.
I hear the sound of trees that do not fall
to death, and with the ground they do not kiss,
and I find absence here: nowhere at all.