It’s a different way of thinking.
A man, his face torn and bloody,
sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft.
He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so
when he cries out (which he does) his voice is
silent. He is like this for many years.
And then a hand is placed on his shoulder, and
helpless, destitute, he knows he can see, and
the shaft is filled with light.
He looks into the eyes of his savior, and he
is amazed. He is common, ordinary, but
he carries a warmth, an invisible light.
And as the old man opens himself, the warmth fills him.