Modern Romanticism

Hope stirs
in who you’ve seen,
lacking their imagery
that the world treats
as invisible children,
dressed in white.

To you,
they’ve surrendered,
just as you
enter their scenery
to fill their rivers
with contents
from broken dams.

You’re weeping
their overdue tears,
raining through their rest,
or when they’re aware
of their breath.

You’re their pieces
to rebuild,
with hands that bleed,
with a face that smiles
for someone unseen.

But what you do
turns you into
being their effigy
that won’t last
the longest voyage.

You don’t mind,
even when their gardens
are fertilized
with your flesh,
with your death.