The Gaze of a Child

Mothers, fathers
holding their dead children.
The newborn, dead.
Huge hands
delivered the child not into a white shawl
but a baby sheet, crimson-coloured.
Gazing eyes
made of mirrors and glass,
reflecting no light.

I could hear the mourning, the sorrow,
the words of consolation,
God’s name spoken aloud,
like a lone call —
as if God might hear,
and bend over to touch.
If I had your faith,
if I could pray,
perhaps I would be less lonely
then, my child
would enter my arms
softly,
as if death
were not forever,
and my farewell
just a brief goodbye.
But I have no faith.
Your tears fall,
as mine once fell.
And I could only feel
despair,
despair,
astonishment
when I heard
the coo of the pigeon,
the scream of the seagull.
I saw you
I heard your God’s prayer
as your tears
mingled  with mine —
shed so long ago
in another country,
in another place.
Your eyelids will not alert you,
protect you,
nor allow you to rest
for even a moment
again.
Your father’s eyes are wider —
not even the sky
can be so vast,
so infinite,
so aloof
as the gaze
of a dead Palestinian
child.