Today unnamed poets died.
Their verses fell on deaf ears,
and the sky did not cry for them.
The heavens weep for no one.
Tomorrow unnamed soldiers will be born.
Their fights began long ago,
and the stars don’t shine for them.
The stars will still shine when all wars have ceased.
Yesterday unnamed hearts stopped beating.
Because hearts don't have names,
and why would they?
The names carved even in stone are not immortal.
Yet the unnamed spiders still spin webs in the wind.
Unnamed flowers grow in the desert,
perhaps just to spite the nameless dust.
The flowers and dust fight like ancient lovers.
And the poets will die,
and the soldiers will be born,
and the hearts will stop,
and the spiders will spin,
as we skip across the sky
like rocks on a pond,
assigning names to every cloud.