A man, sadly
Job looks out at me-
No- eyes are not windows
but wells.
Its gaze evokes dreams of dread,
emptiness, and hell.
Yes, hell is not flaming but
Black;
Nor shrill cacophony but
Silence.
And we all hover around hell-
all of us,
looking in through the one lens
that has frozen hell in motion
and in life:
Job looks out at us,
an infant shroud in his arms,
no longer in a father's embrace
But as an offering of defeat
To God...
and the gods.
Flesh crafted in the likeness of God;
ripped by the destruction of man.
Bracing ourselves to be questioned;
having no answer to a man.
The Lord gave,
and all is taken.
A sad day for man indeed-
though as Job was honored-
no relief shall there be
for the Job of our hell
and our purgatory.
I was intensely taken up with this shot, and my gaze lingered on it for the longest time. What struck me were two things: the sheer feeble size of the dead babe, and the expression of the man. The man is amazing: his wide hands that could have been bathing and holding the babe dear, were surpporting the weight of his infant that has been shot dead instead. His strong fingers were spread wide, as if trying to feel as much of his child as possible for the last time. A strong man he seems to be indeed, for, his face, though obviously conveying sheer anguish, was stoic albeit helpless in its demenour. His eyes are the ones which held mine the most: I feel ashamed to be privy to and intruding upon his private-yet public-moment of mourning. Life for him will never be the same, and we just gaze upon him, and leave. He wants to weep, but will not, for the dignity of the camera.
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