The following poem," English not spoken here," is by Eileen Hennessy. I think it is a marvelous example of what can happen one when writes from feelings. Eileen and I are working on a book, "From PW to Poetry."
English not spoken here,
only the grumble of walls being hacked to dust and rubble by squat silent men with round bronze faces and narrow dark eyes, clothes, embedded with plaster dust and cockroach fossils.
Two by two the men push man-tall bins of rubble to the elevator, the street, the garbage truck grinding its jaws. No need for language
in this labor of rubbishing, a building big enough to hold the home villages of these men and their families, long since broken to silence.