To contain oneself in rage. To hold the burning man, the perfect passion, to hold, to love, to steadfastly stand.

The rage swelled in the vessel that was I. Legions of human images paraded inside the lids of my eyes: the burning monk in vietnam, the kurdish babies dead of nerve gas in their dead fathers' arms, the timorese woman's pregnant belly slit open with a bayonet - who can imagine how this came to be in our world? - the american babies' tiny bodies violated by the ones they love and trust, and all the women ever since the beginning of time begging for mercy as they were raped over and over again - my rage grew and grew and the vessel did burst - the horrible sadness as they crucified the only one who could love relentlessly, sweetly, unconditionally and speak about it openly - the rage at the injustice, the screaming rage transforming itself into visions of murder by my hands, into my desire to hurt and maim those who would stand in my way, stand in the way of love.

I breathed hard and harder, and the vessel could no longer carry the weight and the pressure: tears flowed from one of many leaking places, the tears of rage the tears of love the tears of desperation the tears of longing for the embrace of loving Godde in heavens the tears of grief for the pain of all my people and tears of grief for my own unrequited love, my own unrequited passion. And for all my people. And for all my    a n g e r    .

              William Blake

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.


The Cycle of Life

Anita Roy
English 315
Malaspina University-College
Copyright © Anita Roy 2000