Day 543

What do you ask of us now,
our martyred brother, our brother
who wrote poems, who
loved to run, our brother
who fed roving hungry dogs
half the food he could find
for himself, our brother
who sat on a rock last night
and sang for us, sang
for the little ones?  Only
that you remember me.  Only
that our stories be recorded.
Only that you remember
I cherished you,
that the songs I sang,
the words I wrote,
were for my people. That I loved
sunlight and warmth and walking
in late afternoon.  Only
that you remember I lived,
that my footprints, which
disappear now in the rain,
the bombings, will be absorbed
by the earth, will accompany you
as you continue our struggle.