Life is beautiful, but I doubt

Life, they say, is beautiful
but I doubt.

To the starving boy
kneeling down at twilight by the White Nile,
a river is pointless.

To the girl
closing the last gap between her unholy flesh and the Sati pyre
at the first appearance of light,
the Sun is unbearable.

To the orphan
deafening the storm
with a cry of anguish,
love is heresy.

Even so, in deepness our hearts croon the Greek chorus of life.

From the petty heap of life

rises up softly from a lake in a faraway reality
a Cephissus, with a flowerpot of milk

descends gently from the chariot of seven suns
a Sirius, to soothe our daughters to the light

brightens unwaveringly
a Hestia, the hearth of all hapless children.

A swarm of butterflies that very moment arrests our chary selves
sings us the undying lullaby of life, they say, is assuringly beautiful.