In Cenotaph

One may not name them, for they died as faceless as they lived, their monument yet unseen, its peak above the clouds, remembering what they would not, projecting even from their beds, and through the midnight hours, their acts of faceless love. Theirs was the courage just to be, for that is what love is, that hate is not— can never be, for of itself, it cannot co-exist. Love's incompleteness is their gift to us, our stuff of dreaming, and the mortar of a soaring cenotaph that speaks of who we were. Love is the song of the unsung, unnumbered as the years will cover us-- the countless sands of Abram's sea who hear the call to be. ~