Tear-stained

That day on a still park
Near a fountain, I was sitting on a bench next to an old lady
Gazing at the statue at the centre of the fountain
Of a woman -- covered at appropriate places -- gazing back at me
The old lady was reading the morning paper
Everything about her was grey
Grey attire, grey paper, grey much like the greyish-blue sky
and the grey clouds, behind which the sun was hiding
I curled, lifting my knees to touch my cheeks, about to doze off
The old lady took out a handkerchief to wipe her tears, the paper still on her lap
A long sniffle.

I needn't to ask her why -- I read it
Another brutality, another atrocity, another crack at the Dam of tears
A baby thrown away down the garbage chute, its orifices teeming with ants
A young suicide bomber blasting off in the middle of town
A girl finally succumbing to death seven hours after her last wish was granted
A rape of a woman; a rape of a nation
Body parts scattered in the Atlantic
It makes the heart of everyone who has it
bleeds

The handkerchief can soak up her tears
-- How about
the blood shed
the innocence snatched
the scar incurred
on the body and the soul --
What can?

A chill drizzle comes
though it feels warm like tears
steadily gaining momentum
I look at the tear-stained paper:
creased and crumpled
drop by drop the paper is getting wet.
I look at the tear-stained face:
weathered by time, creased and crumpled
by sorrow and anguish
drop by drop the face is getting wet.
Even the statue is weeping:
Something flows beneath its eyes
pigeonshit and rainwater mingling
Everything is crying --
the lady, the heaven, the statue
How can I not be?