The metal gates partially open. Mics and cameras line up
on the threshold like spikes.
Sitting cross-legged on the courtyard’s cement, they watch
the scene unfold, their gaze withered by the wait.
Lips sewn closed expecting the interviews.
Cross stitched.
Translator’s note: The impulse for this poem stems from events where suffering is silenced, and protest becomes a gesture of utter courage and despair.
 
  
   
    