Stars shine on my wound.
An owl out there in the darkness. Somewhere.
Voices in the park across the street. Laughing.
No one can tell how empty I am.
A shell of a man. Years pass
Without you in them, my son.
Pos Moua, the San Joaquin Valley is quiet
For the lack of your footsteps on the soil.
Even the crops and the cattle are silent
With respect for your passing.
Life is what it is, and what life isn’t, it isn’t.
And silence, my friend, is golden.