Three Fell

The silence of three dead

turned oak trees

with thousands of palm-sized hands

bark thicker than the mysteries of time

by rocky crags.

Three men fell

pierced by bullets or arrows

Supposedly their blood ran into the salty waters

Of them nothing remains

not their names

their dates of birth

their origins

Only a poem

a painting

of the impressions of their existence

upon the walls

of Fort Henry James.