I have eaten ripe white peaches in the glory of the sun,
I’ve kissed lips that now won’t answer, stitched my heart up, I’ve begun
projects I may not finish, read good books, I’ve loved again,
and I try to walk in hope although I often walk in pain.
But somewhere, in a cupboard, in the darkness, sits a boy,
whose memory of losses cuts his memory of joy
who dare not live, or love, or hope that grief may one day pass
because it never does for him, for him, in Omelas.
Pain can not be weighed or measured, because pain is what we feel
and we know the pain of others is equivalently real
so we try to help, we hope that what we’ve come to learn is shared,
but the worst of all pain’s lessons is that those we love aren’t spared.
Lots of life consists of saying “Here I am, and here are you,
here are sunshine, love, and peaches, and some words I hope are true.”
29th January 2003
