Romania, 1990
I never talked about the rooms
of orphans languishing in beds -
still corridors, like wombs,
that darkened pictures in our heads,
escorting us through tombs.
No unseeing their hopeless eyes,
tied in their cribs, such tiny souls -
and eerily, no cries.
Ceausescu's children paid their tolls
amidst the buzzing flies.
I could not save each child in need,
just one small baby, sweet and small -
more than just a good deed.
I wished that I could take them all,
and I will always bleed.
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