Andre, what have you given me
with these scattered ashes
that fall lightly on my shoulders?
I am afraid to look into these eyes,
I want the boy to pull his hood closer
so that I do not have to answer
the stoning of questions that have
no answers. You have given
me light and color, the pulse
of bodies still living and the mask
of the dead. I have no songs
to sing, just the mumblings
of a witness who has known
the pain of hopelessness
and the balm of the redeemed.
It is all I have to offer,
my fingers gray with ashes.