I could tell you stories, brief,
Short as the time it takes a raindrop to reach the earth and oceans.
In this life, I won’t be able to say
Everything that could be said, should be said
About the jars near Xieng Khouang, the bombs of old
With their dreams of flame and scars.
There are eternal pairs of birds, friends of our fathers,
Great beauties of flesh and stone, voices longing
Among the sharing, the generous, the witnesses who remain.
A whole cosmos awaits.
In this life, I won’t be able to say
Everything that could be said, should be said
But I’ll say as much as I can.
If you won’t spare twelve words for your family,
Your people, not even enough to compete with a soup can label,
How can you expect strangers to tell your children
Of your yesterdays and all our future tomorrows?
I will tell you stories, brief,
Short as the time it takes the sun to set one last time on a nation,
A life,
Hoping, always hoping, I will hear a story from you, too.
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