Your eyes, the windows into your soul,
Look dark and frightened as you stare
Out the window of the bus, which
Seems to be going nowhere you know,
And you carry in your mind’s eye
The image of the crucified man nailed
To a door in a village, some hours back.

Another you saw in the local church
Hung up high above your head,
His plaster figure nailed to wood,
His features chiseled into the guise
Of pain, but you never looked again,
You always turned your face away,
Until today, when the other was hung
A few feet from the ground with
Rusty nails, with distant sounds of
Gunfire filling the wet noon air.

The bus pauses, you look out to see
If another may be hanging from some
other tree, or if some one will bring
back your father from the men who led
him away, so you may see him smile again
Through the window and downpour of rain.