You tread softly
As if the earth is made of snow.

Gesturing broadly to your guest:
“This is where our great memorial will be.”

You lower your gaze;
Your guest follows your lead.

The memory of war pierces you;
Your tears drop like blood.

Pause.
Poetry is rising.

Our graves beneath you:
An inverted heaven.

A sliver of a sunflower
Unfolds to meet the sun.

Children of freedom:
Dip your pens
Deep into our souls;
We have made ink.