Dey Still Carries Your Scent

Dey Still Carries Your Scent

This Dey,

what a bitter cold!

On the rooftops

snow will not stay;

the burning grief of these homes

melts

the winter.

The earth,

even the grave,

cannot bear so much grief.

The babbling owl

on the roof of the ruin

speaks of spring;

with a beak

that still

smells of blood.

Dey still carries your scent.

Mother

stitched the night to the door;

waiting

for a voice that will never come again.

Father

saw the morning

from behind his child’s framed portrait;

he laid his hand on the glass,

and the sunlight

in his eyes

went out.

Dey still carries your scent.

The child

held their father’s shirt

in their arms;

the scent remained,

the embrace did not.

Dey still carries your scent.

Did you not see?

The ice of Dey

has still not melted;

but beneath the snow,

their warm blood

beats

in the veins of the earth.

No root

has fallen asleep.

Owl!

Sing all you like

over the ruins;

winter,

however long it lingers,

will pass.

And this earth

will never become

your nest.