What they will pretend not to know
when you are injured
is how ugly you feel now.
It is hard to imagine living
without a part
of yourself.
Every other working arm or leg
or eye
or foot
no matter who owns it
will arouse your envy.
You will hate yourself
for this.
But no. There is another way
to look at all loss
and that is that it is a door.
Of course it is a door at the very bottom
of your world
but you will find it
if you stay the course
of curiosity
between who you were before
and who you now are.
It will not help much to know
what has happened to you
is happening to children
around the globe
wherever they are defenseless
and weak
wherever their protecting families
and neighbors
have already,
so many of them,
been murdered
or taken brutally away.
Nothing will penetrate your sorrow.
Or your loneliness.
This I know.
And yet
here I am singing
a song about doors
at the bottom of dark wells
stuffed already
with rats and corpses.
Here I am telling you
that in reality
and as improbable
as it may seem:
There is no (doorless)
bottom
to this life.