After BBC News…

What can I do but write?
What can I do but let my heart cry,
Knowing that I can change nothing,
That we are just enough separate
That some can be vicious
And I can but cry?
Where do I abide?
Some lay in the gutter,
Naked in a farmer’s field,
Dragged and mutilated on the desert sand.
Children with holes, not just in their hands,
Bleeding and ravaged.
Women hiding behind colorful scarves with anguish in their eyes,
Men falling down with sorrow.
They do not flee into the desert with hope of finding god in solitude.
They are not the desert fathers.
They are the desert victims.
They are lined up in the desert and shot.
Satan drives them to the desert.
Is this god?

O god what does this mean?
Why would you need us to give you love,
To choose to love you?
Isn’t that absurd?

All I know is that I want to create,
Not as an ode to you necessarily,
But because finishing a piece of artwork brings me peace.
I have tried to find some meaning to my life beyond that simple pleasure,
But I always come back to that one desire.
To sculpt.
To paint.
To see colors emerge before me.
To see someone appear.
A smiling face, my youthful spirit.
My hands.
My hands.
They are the instruments of your peace.
They heal.
Behind them is power and I don’t know from where it comes,
But I know it is there and that must be enough.
If I wonder too much about the source,
I lose time to create.
I must just trust.