Looking through the window

It takes some years, perhaps your
whole life, to realize that deep hopes
won't materialize.

On Robben Island, I looked through the bars
that another man had considered for decades,
and come through, counting the cost and pain of
that perusal.

In my own growing up I wanted joy they said God gave,
and now that my body is beyond belief,
I am trying the catch
that keeps the window closed.

Sometimes you want to feel the ice air
take you by the face,
reddening nose, cheeks and ears to a
robust sense that disguises itself as
reality.

I am glad my children know how to
breathe, one was born six weeks early.
That was something to
get through.

They're meant to live after being
born,
and when a system of stupidity
stops them,
how do we speak out? How do we
save the situation?

There's a sword we're scared to grasp
in our current world, the one that cuts through multi-
edged truth. We've move moved on from two.

When I take a step back, and consider how the cry of
fairness slaps God's face,
I know that I look through many windows
that have been put there on purpose,
to keep you out.

But the prison of vision is a strange one:
it generates the singing of children who may be
taught words and tune, yet in their very voices
something fierce declares more than their
sweet tones.

And when I hear that,
my heart is also wild,
turning all my understanding
into rapids that refuse
failure of movement.