Makes No Sense

Music makes no sense anymore—why should I compose,
I am abandoned by time whether I sing or am still.

When words are poison to the tongue, why taste?
Stifling songs is my abuser’s strongest skill.

No one anywhere notices or cares whether
I cry, whether I laugh, whether I die or am still

here, in this captive’s cell with Grief and Remorse;
why live, if my tongue is sealed, still.

Slow down, heart that leaps to greet sweet spring,
my broken wings will temper this temporary thrill.

Though melodies drain from memory, stale with silence,
songs waft up from soul-whispers still.

One thought of the day I will break the cage
makes me croon like a carefree drunk until

they can see I am no wind-trembled willow tree—
an Afghan woman wails and sings, and wail and sing I will!