Yusuf Yusuf is sitting next to his mother, his body lying faceup in the field. Sunshine ’ s carving his childlike gaze. In the morning lightening in the sky, a blast: perhaps a thunderstorm, but no rain melting the soil into endless dark rivulets. War deletes the borders of sense. Perhaps it was a game, his mother had been sleeping for hours, her arms folded on her belly and wouldn't wake up. And the black chasm had swallowed the poor things of home. Yusuf still doesn't know, his father and his brother killed far away beyond the dunes of blood from sunrise to sunset. His mother had been telling tales of love, tales of peace. Yusuf is now waiting for her Voice. Poetry Sometimes words are eyes gazing at the world aslant. Deep down they dig different perspectives. Sometimes, however, words hover in mid air and fail to reach into the corners of life. And verse is dust in a beam of light. Living things Memories are waves devouring the mind’s sand...