It Is i That Should Not Matter

to whom, for whom,
shall I write?
it does not matter,
I would like to think.

silence is a shroud
but pinpricks of light
do enter if I sense.

sweet whispers of nothing
through walls that fortify,
sight of lovers kissing
through lacy curtains.

but once unleashed, I reach far
to the hearts
and the heartless.

if only for a moment:

in shelters’ muddy cold,
with mother and child,
eyes blinded by death;
mother, hold tight,
deceive your child;
let him or her not believe
that your womb
is the cause for evil.

how easy it seems
to write, wishing.

but the pain of death
and the joy of life,
which is which,
do not wonder.

I do not matter,
a sip of love
is enough.

it is i
that should
not matter.