The men in the photograph

These men are in shadows, all the time
Trying to speak, to open their mouths
In the temple, at the lake, on the road
Their common destiny looks unfolding
Bounded by their collective lip-sealing
The ineptitude of their lives and bodies.

If only they opened, shouted and forgot
Their gaffes, their shame, common guilt
The primeval guilt flowing from bodies
The guilt of colors, the inevitable doom
Foreclosing of future options, the walls
Built on their words, the burden of a past.

They are there at the temple in squares,
Palms cupped to water, their heads hung
To obeisance, their songs sung in unison
Their hopes jumping from thing to thing.

The camera would bring them out of light
Their bodies dumped in squares of shade
In limpid pools of thought, under the trees.
Their water flows in thin shiny streamlets
Their words frozen at lips, still trembling
At their imagination, in a foregone reality.

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