Wounded Men

Do you see that man
over there
under the acacia tree
there he sits his furrowed face
his restless
movements he is describing
a language
no one will read only the ravens
above do see
he is one of the wounded men

tell me where is the wound
you say,
that you see no wounds no blood
running
you note he is not punctured
or bruised
he does not limp, his pace is even
look closer
his wound is an old photograph
a woman’s lips
pressed against the rose
he held
once in his hand

can you see his wound there
right there
look into his eyes watch them
light up
like small flames fed by the slightest breeze
his dreams
are endless searches for we have
seen him
walking along the dimly lit track
his only relief
is the wind and rain

does the man have a name,
you ask
he once told me names are not
important
he told me just to focus merely
on what is
there before your eyes moment
to moment

but his wounds still festers
and his cries
goes unheard in the world
this blood
is the ink from which he writes
there upon
a story for others to know
he is
for better and for worse
every poet.

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