The Icon Made Of Paint And Paper Poem by RIC BASTASA

they cannot see the weights
on your shoulder
and you do not exhibit all
the heaviness in your
eyes

you look good they say
and envy you for being happy

there is a way to make this
world know
that your sorrow is your own
your pleasures too

your hair is shiny
your nose still sharp like
a beak of that eagle
in the high mountains

you only feel the thinness
of your soul
you are looking for gods
to assure you what may soon
turn out tomorrow

here you are again
mild in your silence
warm in your affections
the women look at an icon
made of paint and paper
the men all had left
towards the wars of their own
softly the children sing
the lullabies of their
really tired mothers.....