We speak to silences,
you, maybe, and I.
In dark corners – we Scream,
so our voices, desiccated
turned to dust, are
picked up like ash.

Can you hear the cry of the Dodo,
as the last one dies?
Or see that fenced Tasmanian Wolf,
as it breathes out its last breath?

We closet our ears,
you, maybe, and I.
Under our covers – we Dream,
so our thoughts, hollowed
left to decay, are
crushed up like sand.

You can see that Nothing is left now,
in this desert of lies.
You may only see the wind gust,
where once there was life.