P A T R I A R C H

Brightly white against the dark, ribbed coat,
the bearded face is an enigma out of ages past
kept in time by the unerring, documenting lens.

Is this old man irate at being photographed,
at being seen by Western eyes with vegetables
in hand, a woman fixing her attention on his mien?

Or has her lens perceived a look of consternation
deeper yet, reflecting rage emerging from the heart
as teeth begin to grit? The sound of gravel underfoot.

A faceless man with jet-black hair walks by.
His youth untroubled by the modern ways, there is
no backward glance. He walks beyond all yesterdays.

The patriarch ignores him too. Unmoved by time,
his furrowed stare remains in place, an esoteric sign.

ROBERT LIMA