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If not this tree can recall the tears,
Then clouds shall shed their rain coats
And children will huddle together
In memory of those who had gone before their day.
Always it is difficult for the poets to speak then a few words.
Picasso did it in paint and figures after Guernica,
But after Auschwitz, Rwanda, Dafur, or former Yugoslavia
Who has still the strength to speak out with a human voice
So as not to transform everything into only a lyrical protest
That silences all others
Even though their hearts throb and they want to speak
With dry throats and their hands quivering
For true greatness makes every man or woman, child or aged person
Stutter out words of humble truth.
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