Your fledgling faith is beginning to paint lines,
extruding mute colours,
flickering images.

But the light in you is brittle,
it quavers like crystal,
threatens to shatter,
in the night,
in the empty square,
where no lantern swings.

Now I see how you’ve been scarred by silence,
told it was golden
and good for you.

It should have come,
exploding out,
in the crowded market,
at the self-immolated mothers,
at the fathers in vestments.

But it’s not too late.
Bones are stirring,
rattling down in the Rift Valley.

Go join them.
Make a Bedouin life.
Make raids by camel,
never water down your wine,
be happy with your goats,
be happy with pauses between poems,
silence within poems,
but never again with that imposed silence.