Observe how his dignity impresses,
those everlasting clothes, shapeless, worn.
Peasant of ages, standing still,
craggy, stoic, grim,
Is this the way to mourn?
Is he really coping with the shock?
He seems hard, impervious, like a rock.
But may something be bruised and bleed within?
There are questions I would like to ask.
Does it still beat - his constricted heart?
Does brain still think? Do eyes still see?
Within his veins does blood still run?
He’s quietly lost behind his mask,
and mercifully numb.
David Roberts 13 - 15 November 1999
Copyright © 1999 David Roberts