Almost all of the photographers I've met
Think love is born from beauty, and
To that end that press
Some model's laughing face
Onto another model's handsome shoulder
Money falls against money
In those pictures.

Most photographers I know
Think peace is the only thing
Worth showing anyone -
A snapshot of hills
With maybe a leaning tree
Or a brook running down the valley -
Green against green in a sick world.

But there is one picture-taker
Who goes the world over in search of love
And finds it in huts and jails and scummy apartments,
Who sees that true peace is a falsehood
And a dream to be achieved
Only long after he is gone;
Only when his pictures become scenes
For wealthy and untroubled eyes
And his whisper is taken up as song.