Gazing at the gates of hope
in the lens of my camera.
This, his expression,
upon seeing his own reflection.
In anguish, he asks,
“Is this another check point,
Beyond which
I’ll never pass?”
I gazed at the gates
of my own despair.
In this child’s
world-sized eyes.
Still Ponds in a dusty desert;
thresholds, I’ve never crossed,
Waters, never rippled –
Never sipped.
Self-loathing, I ask,
“Of what use, my bright lantern,
when I fear the shadows
in those I’ll encounter?”
As a journalist of death, I tell you,
I’ve seen the persistence of life
in the faces of children
who’ve never lived.
