How boldly it enfolds, entraps to hear the raptures
of the anguish and the pity and bewilderment
and sorrow in the tales we heard from them today.
It’s hard to disregard their eyes. We must be taken
by them into that odd dark disguise from which
they entertain no prospect of release. Somewhere
in them, somehow, must lie an avenue to peace.
But we can’t lead them there. They wouldn’thave it. Their sadness is too rich and rare.