For War: Where I Wait for You

Jets crowd the sky.
The colors change. Machines.
This burden…
And faces.

Toc
Nhan
Lang
Am
(All missing.)

Hold my heart. Even without hands I can write this, paint this.
Or be turned back from the gate
and into a brown-winged bird
hunting.

For Peace: The Gate

What color is your hair?
Whose hand do you hold?
  These hands we have.

Birds in the yellow sky.
White—under us—sailing.

And our faces change with a wish.
These wings—ours to use.

So much blue—above our heads.
We fly kites.   Form circles.   Sing.

Ask about the sun and where
it comes from:

From light—and the sound
of a bell   ringing so long
no one remembers its name.