I hope or I could not live,

and so I hope for a voice found:

a sliver of shimmering radiance recovered within a cavernous nightfall,

illuminating the way through the darkness that surrounds us now–

that nips at our skin and clings to our souls–

through to the dawn that surely lies ahead.

I hope that one day, 

a morning someday soon, just like today,

a girl will no longer stand before her mirror,

dusty surface obscuring a gaze sharp enough to pierce the glass,

sharp enough to distort each scarlet blemish into fate,

slathering on concealer that can suffocate her skin porcelain–

just like the ones on the magazine covers–

but can never truly gloss the pitted pain pockmarking her heart.

This time, skin will truly only be skin-deep.

This time, the whispers reflected from the other side of the glass–

refracted from her core–

will be different:

you are enough. 

And one day, 

the girl choking on a twisted, sullen silence–

quelled thoughts pushing at her mind, stabbing against her lips–

will realize that there is more to life

more

than steep slogs up the precipices of jagged syllables, a constant upwards trek

through swampy sentences, disjointed words forming winding paths–

oh, and how they may wind–

around the slippery mountain face without ever emerging triumphantly at the peak;

more

than a screaming mind with lips able only to release a sputtering wail:

uh- uh- uh-.

May the snowy white silence of paper offer her sanctuary

to release what has been restrained all this time,

to distill the dark into a gliding fountain of ink. 

May she freely fill the empty expanse with syllables that–

when ignited with the blazing embers of her freshly-sharpened pencil–

soften the frost paralyzing her thoughts, and transform

the crystalline into a world all her own:

petals inching open with each new word, 

blossoming with each new story, 

a voice found.

And in the land of her ancestors

of Ashurbanipal, of Ur 

may the fluted murmurs of ancient melodies once lost–

the fluttering duduk, the quivering oud,

once-timid, always potent–

one day be heard above the disjointed drones of Western warplanes, 

rising into a harmony that smooths the disjointed tinning,

a thousand found voices coalescing into a resounding chorus:

let us live in peace.

And the thin trunk of the pomegranate tree, 

fruits blushing fiery red redemption against the oppressive dust,

will surely rise again through the metal-lacerated desert,

leaves turned towards the sun.

Let us live in peace:

millions of found voices, 

each a shivering spark ignited into a passionate flame by the last,

unwavering through the gloom,

and unrelenting against the wind. 

Millions of found voices,

etching their way across the world,

sculpting the supple soil into lasting landscapes.

I hope or I could not live,

and so I hope for voices found–

lights unearthed from the thick night within,

passed from soul to soul,

illuminating a new day.

Voices found–

rosy buds emerging from trembling petals,

clasped buds unfurling into a garden for all to twirl through

wondrously.

I hope or I could not live, 

and so I hope for a crescendo.