Even though the finger of the news
points at you personally, every day.
Even though your birth
should be a joyous affair
instead of this heavy stone carved
with words to wrestle with again.
What you are is.
What is beautiful is not defined
by whom is in power today.
You are not cursively written
in the long list of jews, blacks,
poles, arabs, derogatory,
quickly spat and under-heard,
little furry spiders, darkly,
in an otherwise wholesome way
giving a foreign address.
What was said about banter?
Was it a right?
Does it crack a brash young man
or shape him by flowing water?
Does it make the almond eyes
of a pretty young girl lower?
Have no fear,
You are beautiful in distress.
Misery, this bony figurehead,
is only human made.
When I look up to the sky,
then to leaves under my feet,
when I’m reminded of how,
alone, I love the way I think.