Epiphora
Rivulets of water pool in muddy holes
The outer rim the shade of blue eye-liner
On the face of a Laddhaki woman
The skin of a cloud, the eye of the sky
The bricks form the bed to which the stream flows across the
Streets and roads and halls and shopfronts
Spattered with the rain that falls so clear
but dries the colour of earth, shiny plastic residue,
A shoe sole dirtied by that which tries to clean.
Combing her hair she removes a small tuft
To quickly dispose of in the bin
“The Irish describe suffering best,” I say.
“Why contemplate suffering?”
“...Because we all suffer.
There is beauty in suffering.
Suffering feels best when one is happy.”
“How can you be happy and suffer?” she asks.
“It becomes objective, understandable, slightly distant
But tender.”
“The Americans write the best love songs,
But the Irish describe suffering with poetry and a wink of hope.”
A spark that rises and falls like the melancholy voice on the stereo.
An eyelash is a minuscule boat that wanders
Down the byways of the streets
Never caring for a destination
Just floating above the cornea of the world's blindness
To all that is untouched by sin.