In a crowded hall On a busy afternoon, Overtaking the sound of rain, There sits a heavy silence. With a great and deafening noise, The burden of its meaning Fills the empty air. Do the words define the message? Or is it the space between the words? A young poet nervously walks onto the stage He meets the crowd's exacting gaze From his jacket, he procures a crumpled note Unfurls it, clears his throat And with quiet determination Begins his recitation: "This is a poem," he says, "A Poem To The Unborn Dead" And walks away in silence.