Tears August-September 2004 The forgotten tears, Unknown, unseen, Unshed, precious. With the rising sigh, They tickle my nostrils And, with the shiver in my chest, Twinkle on my lashes, Before I wipe them off swiftly, With the dying sigh. The shrivelling tree waits As flames of heat approach; The whispering wind brushes past In quick quiet steps, And presses into the hands The dead ashes of hope. The dry ashes. I wait for the unshed tears.