Images in boxes, images on walls,
Images above my desk, by my bed, on my screen,
Images in the journal, on the street,
Images in my memory, real or imaginary,
Images before my eyes, dead or living.
All lack words.
Orphaned, they show the best or the worst,
Orphaned, they scream their joy or their grief,
No protection for the one who sees,
No protection for the one who hears.
A silent scream,
Torn bodies, torn faces, blood and pain,
Mirrors of who we are.
A silent laughter,
exulting life, love and ties,
They remind us why.
Do they help us understand ?
Do they allow us to see ?
Do they make us repair ?
Their scream is unheard
They are left silent, irremediably.
With time, we forget them,
Until one day, they reappear again.