A Cento,

That room and me, rejuvenate a past.
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound-
Slight as it is, disturbs me.

The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence
Long after it was heard no more
Outlived.

Our dried voices, when
Trying to keep still,
the shells were screeching overhead.

Stilled by the shouting, the audience,
The only way to be quiet is to be quick:
For this, for everything, we are out of tune.