In these eyes, I see life and death, an agglomeration bereft, not of sorrow—but faith
As I stare into these eyes
I feel distorted and incomplete,
Torn apart, but still living, in the belly of the netherworld
As its body trembles, my mind caving in, like thin ice—hysteria

In these eyes, I see trauma and innocence, an imponderable struggle of inanity to the unmensch
Cowering in the face of the victim, without answers, I feel guilty, forever indebted
As though I caused that pain, and the poverty, of love and self-love,
No longer satisfied with personal success, I wept for myself and the victim, for our world and our future.

Overcome by grief, I shut my eyes and asked myself one more time: Why what’s in these eyes is not a crime?