The Last Translation of Words

One of July's Inscriptions; 2009.

All our words fail
As the sun sets behind the mountains
The twelfth day on which we met
All our senses fail
There's nothing left to see
Hear, taste, touch
Our mind's are dry

Like the quiet shoreline
Our bones are brittle and breaking
With each step
We feel them bend
Pressing down
This gravity
This pressure
This weight

Even in death we cannot reach the azure skies
So we lay motionless in the fields
Gazing blankly up
We watch the stars

We watch the stars...
And think to ourselves...
What if...?