If I Fall Silent

I hold the quiet of old hands,  

pressing against the grain of loss.  

In the marrow of my stillness lies  

a hunger that never found its root.  

Between the scream and the silence,  

I am the weight of untold names  

buried beneath heavy earth, forgotten.  

Words ferment in shadows, waiting release.  

The olive tree bends but never breaks,  

its truth growing thick in hushed seeds.  

I am the amber pause of traffic lights,  

the stutter between halt and reckoning.  

How many breaths waste on swallowed words?  

The world chokes on its own held voice,  

but here silence is sharp, unsheathed,  

a blade etched with old wounds, ripening.