Conversation is a form of play

We take our turns to let the other say

When we pray we hope that God will hear

We send our spoken music without fear

If no one responds what shall we do?

The mouth turns dry our lips are sealed  with glue

I wonder who we talk to as we moan

Repeating cliches drop like  dead grey stones.

You think you speak to me but you are wrong

I hear no music and I hear no song

It’s hard to leave a gap for others words

when we fear their sharpness like small swords

But in the end we must hear or die.

Yet if none will speak they tell no lie