I, for one

How many millions, born in pain and joy and expectation,
Have bled out beneath the sky—
Their mothers gone long before them
From fever or the torching of their town?

How many lovers have built their houses hoping
That inside would thrive a perfect union,
And found indifference and refusal
That leached the sap and serum from their souls?

How many mothers have lost their children,
Born in pain and joy and expectation,
Raised in days of adoration,
To a chance encounter with blade or gun?

What ocean of humanity has crashed against the dikes
Of penury, pillage, and lack of rain,
Leaving wreckage floating by the seawall,
Deeds not done, sons unborn?

How many in that ocean have found one like you to love
For an eternal moment that transmutes past to preface
And makes the path ahead a pilgrimage
To the spring from which your water flows?

I, for one.