Whose shoes these are I think I know.
He slipped them off not long ago.
Though he is mum, within my mind,
The whispers of his stories flow.
My learned friends must think me weak
To hear a voice that does not speak,
To pause before each careful slice,
As if unsure of what I seek.
With light so harsh and flesh so bare,
It seems perverse to wonder where
The winds of life did blow and sweep
His joy and wonder and despair.
Yet still these questions I do keep;
I know the truth is buried deep.
A man is silent once asleep,
A man is silent once asleep.