I watch him as I watch wind moving through branches. He touches without touching; he haunts the living.

We are here to be remembered as the forgotten and to be seen as the invisible. Some are ex-soldiers, some are former civil servants, or farmers; most are criminals. It is our punishment to be dead among the living.

But the poet, the one who sings to the night, is living after death among us.  The walls of stone are not meant for him, untimely is his life among the living and strange is his song of love.

I saw him once; give his bread to a murderer who was beaten like a dog. The poet laid the bread on the ground before the man-dog.  As God’s poet walked away, mercy fell upon the man as if it was raining stones; he winced, softening the bread with his tears. God’s love is a merciless mercy.

Rarely do I love. Rarely, but this poet is a morning dove in God’s hand. He is the visible kindness heaven meant for men, his song is freedom. His chains are only on his skin and bones. “Deserve, or not deserve; can you not thank God?”  We are shamed by his simple teaching.

He has seen God; he can no longer see man.

In his ecstasy, the songs possess him. He paints the sky red with the blood of pomegranates, dipping his pen in the sky to write his dreams.

Would that my son could see this man before the sword scatters the pages of his dream into the wind. Who, but the condemned have heard the truths hidden in this prison; as if it was meant to be this way.

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