There floats a voice, a haunting by notes,
a voice to this ghost, stretching songs on and on,
to implore, to yearn, the breathing ones to come forth,
to be judged.

There comes a dead woman, singing in my ear,
her name is Puma, running, running,
eyes haunting sounds of night gliding
by the skin of jungle cats who hide the souls
of those who might be judged.

What does this ghost want to sing to us
who breathe the air of our own desires?
She does not sing words, for only haunting notes
sound singular enough to bear a soul forth . . .
to bring one of us forward.

This, then, is what the ghost
will do . . . she will sing
of wrongs and cinder love, she will hum of injustice,
this ghost in my ear; she will yearn and she will think
oh why come forth, oh why, only then to die . . .
but we all must sing this particular song
although few know what the ghost
did sing . . . how the only judges
of us all, at the end of all the breathing,
the only judge is our very own soul
who must judge the actions of its
own singular life.

Yes, then, it's what the ghost
still knew, her own soul
judging her alone;
one sees it in her eyes.