.
.
.
When you hear the whistle
of the terrible, dreaded missile
shooting far over our heads
and when the birds enter a silence
that not even the morning light can break.
Do you grab the graying hand
of a lover that you did not have
a chance to wed?
As the flames burn us all at once
and leave nothing
but ash in our place.
I whisper to the fierce, man-made winds
and hope my new, clear words
find you in our nuclear world
I will see you again
in the aftermath.
.
.
.