Suddenly I become
aware of it, just after thinking
about the young boy
with a gaping hole
in his throat
who lived, against
all the odds, lived
while so many other
maimed children died,
while I go through
Thomas Merton's poems,
seeking something to translate
this October night,
before the morning
comes with sleep;
the sound of rain
from the darkness outside
that is never as dark
as the conscience of people
who make holes
in throats of children,
a benign, autumnal
darkness that hides
each falling raindrop
the entire way from the clouds
to the earth,
but there
is no darkness benign
or deep enough
to hide a single child
from the genocidaires.
10.10.2025
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