The sin of ink

Omayra Sanchez - Frank Fournier

A child’s heart may seem to flutter

With the same morbid delicacy of a bird’s wings

In a sea of petrol

With words of rage and love he may stutter

Tripping on objects that are to us but little things

But a child knows not the certainty of death

Only the one provided by life

He doesn’t struggle with every breath

For the end is as sharp and close as the knife

It brings upon

Or the peaceful rested wrinkles

That settles after one last yawn

When old age tingles

Then finally rests

A child is claimed innocent

His naivety we preserve

But even to life, we ought to pay our rent, and the years are only lent

Do not fool yourself with what you think you deserve

As the child grows old and bald

And less and less bold

We will forget the image of that bird

Agonizing, flapping frantically to survive

We will forget what we heard

He cried while he was alive

And that piercing scream

Was not innocent nor delicate

As frail and different as they may seem

When faced with pain they are just as desolate

Those children, in a pool of petrol as black as sin

Stained as they sink

What they survive they carry within

And what they share, becomes ink