Tell us, what do the living do?
Do you dance? Do you make bread
with each other? Do you walk in the parks
in Autumn, smelling the late summer flowers?
Is it true that some things get to grow old?
What is the world doing now? Are you fighting
with sticks and stones? Do you remember
us? Do you lie down under the stars
and listen to the birds passing overhead,
and do you get to feel the little wings of your own
wild heart be opened? You have somewhere
to go then, don’t you? Go. Don’t let us keep you.
We have names, we are safe. We’re at school.
We are hiding in our favourite little places, waiting
for you to tap us on the shoulders, to tell us
it was just a joke, come home now,
and the bombs and boots are just a game we’re playing,
and the bread and milk are waiting on the table,
and the moon is new, and the gardens are in blossom.
This sentence is the length of one of our shoes.