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Silence is the sin
says a beautiful woman
turning her head from the bridge, canal
rippling with shadows of lantern
and palm leaf.

Like the water
her Egyptian hair
shimmers darkly -- light
caught from street lamps
arching along a road
that reaches for The Square

* * * * *
Other lamps
shine on her son's face
glistening with sweat.

Even a camera's light
mounted on an old shoe
reveals his grimace

while a gash enflames
his upper arm, an unstitched
wound, and to some ---
blood sentence of the martyr.

For hours, He spoke against
the lack of provisions
for everyday, opportunity
weightless as the river
that yields more silt than fish.

He felt hunger
hurled in loaves of stone
that broke skin or glass, the pressure
for change rising
with fist and flag

* * * * * *

Silence is my sin
cries a beautiful woman
as she kneels to touch
her son's flesh, her voice
falling on the plaza

like a soft rag
soaked in oil, an echo
others may ignite.



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The following comments are for "Refrian Amidst Ligt, Stone And Water"
by Gwendrina





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