© 1994 Byron Belitsos
Byron Belitsos
Am I this child,
the child that is running to my arms,
weary, with longing eyes?
Is that the child that I was?
Or are we three this same child,
running toward each other
wanting the love that we partake
as children of God,
running to the arms of God?
Can we hold each other’s hands
in a ring of delight?
Can we dance like friends
in a festival of learning
where wisdom’s the invited guest?
— where the gushing wire of passion
becomes the flowing river of knowledge?
When else did nothing
become something
in the hands of friendship?
When, if not now,
did the cup of honesty
overflow with gentleness?
Are those who mourn most
not those to be most comforted?