the

thieves

the

thieves

the

many

whom

I

have

met

surrounding

until

they

choke

the

thieves

whom

burn

and

turn

and

then

the

thieves

whom

meet

the

thoughtful

blithe

and

a

deafening

silence

that

effortlessly

descended

and

grew

from

the

rocky

mountain

that

overlooked

deaths'

machines

the

thieves

whom

quickly

took

what

they

could

in

hopes

to

defend

themselves

and

the

thieves

whom

quickly

grew

weak

to

an

army

only

ever

described

as

the

question

the

thieves

whom

did

not

know

their

own

answer

the

thieves

whom

did

not

know

how

to

thieve

an

answer

and

the

thieves

whom

sit

so

silently

ready

to

learn

what

they

could

never

know

the

thieves

whom

sit

so

silently

eager

to

open

the

book

written

in

a

language

they

do

not

know

and

well

the language of love is said to not be capable of translation

the thieves, one by one, left behind in the dust