The night again will return, to terrorise or to soothe,
and, weak as water colour, be washed away by dawn.
Then dawn itself will drown in the rising of the mist
which, in turn, will yield to the rigours of the day.
Flowers will bloom and die, each in its own season,
hearts will be renewed and broken and renewed.
So wars will always be and peace, perhaps, be won
and here a crib be made, and thereafter, a coffin.
Man will be as human as the number of witnesses he has
and ghosts will rise from their longing to be made whole again.
Nations rise and fall and rise and fall once more,
lovers will often separate and, here, love will be made.
And the God weeping at Gethsemane because of the vastness of his love,
in the infinity of his solitude, will become just a man.
SEPTEMBER 25, 2012