As Days Go By
by Ida Fasel

The leaves fell early, and I cannot write
Of those who danced at death with such delight
In their descent. I have the shock and horror
Of Milton at the Piedmont massacre.
He made of his stunned silence holy sound
As martyred blood and ash fell to the ground.

I cannot write and yet I have the grief,
The long sob, the
Einfhlung without relief.
I cannot write by day so words slip through
At night. I turn by day from vivid view
Of slaughter. I cannot write, I cannot write
Of those who danced at death with such delight.

I cannot write; I stay and yet I leave:
After the cries, the whispers of the grave.

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