Inkwell

Was an impossible dream really,
And the world was without words.
And in silence
The suffering speech of a people
A modest, mouse-colored people
Within a word was
Ghostly gray,
And no one ever hears a word they say.
One by one the Butterflies go off
Drowning in the inkwell.
And a band of gypsy thieves
Sing in memory of their mountains and Heights,
As no one drops out of the sky
And love falls backwards into death.
In a word,a whisper,the final cry,
A melancholic shout!