If in one day could be contained
the reason of why we’re here
amid the worries of this world
where voices can’t be heard
and gazes can’t be met
where faces stare through window screens,
and the entire world is within our reach
where every story can be told
and transmitted as if it were a dream
like a burning book that can’t be held
reduced to ashes with an artless flame,
and a sense of loss that can’t be gained,
still,
we’d know, as clear as faith
the reason is not quite there.
If in one day could be contained
the reason of why we’re here
amid the wonder of this world
where our voices could be heard
and pairs of eyes could be met
where every face is dressed with feeling,
and the entire world breathes in the same air
and exhales untold stories that belong to us,
read in books that can be held
or transformed in art that dwells in here,
the heart,
and as in faith, we’d know it’s there,
it whispers gently:
“Go. Be free.”
Then how I’m blessed
with the irony of this world
that I can sense, and I can dream,
that I can know, and I can breathe
that I can think, so I could be.
that there is reason behind all this
none of which, depends on me.
