Days of our lives,
This we can only say.

We count the hours
Between hymns we remember
But want to hide
From the heart that sings.

We count the blue moons,
Each hand at a time,
And then the other,
And then the darkness.

We count the sorrows
We assign another name,
Something to keep them
Away from a sentence.

Exiles do not count
In those consonants
Of our cheap talks
About how war is won
In this struggle we call
Our language of sense.

We go the ways
Of angels, fallen in traffic.

Our prayers, sad as always,
Come in to proxy
What we cannot say in words.

It is phrases we cannot turn
Into as minutes, their length
Of time's endlessness
Our private grief.

Life goes on, we say.
We believe it is.

And the sun by the Diamond Head
Rises to a greeting of hope
Coming alive like the marongi leaves
After the first rains.

Waipahu, HI/Dec 2, 2010

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