When Silence is Survival’s Game

PURE

Ice breaks the Northern winds,

here, the chest of knives make

the wind whistle a thin scream

of daughters frightened out of flow

with memory of slaughter,

until they chose to know

that silence is survival’s game

when each sound lifts

the executioner’s blame.

Shame. She is a poet-whore

whispering in rivers of pain

where no loss nor gain

could dub the disposal game

with any special, sacred name.

And the ice burns like lava

in sheaths of snow, purest flame

through words, thoughts

and every sad pretense to know,

where the forsaken go

when sleep drops the human floor.

Georgi