This is a poem written after I had read a history of the Russian Gulags.
My finger is the pen, and my blood the ink.
Even in the waste lands of exile
I will leave my mark.
On the bark of fallen trees I will leave my minds fruit.
Or I will find a tree of acorns deep in the forest.
On each tiny nut I will write one word,
and when the wind blows my words will fall.
But instead of a thud you will hear that word spoken.
The wind will lift that word up,
and the creatures of the forest will name this place “the wind's voice”,
and they will gather to hear what the wind has to say.
Some of my words will be eaten,
but others will take root.
Maybe one will grow tall and strong.
And at the center of all its countless rings my word will live and breathe.
That word that took shape in my mind,
written with my life’s blood, shall remain forever.
A cord binding me to the earth.
And when my soul has gone home I will look down and smile,
thankful that my words had a chance to live again.