Song of the Mute

Mute dwarf
Hunched under the gloaming,
Eyes tightening under clear voices
Refusing to pretend he is not here.

Adult gazes avert, refusing to see,
A relief to the dwarf walking, wounded
Each time they ask who he was allowed
To live.

The children mock him as doppleganger,
One of them but not a child, laughing,
The Don't Walk sign a prison as they circle
Slow and sure.

Sticks, Stones:
Those he knows, but words always strike
Unprepared; so often he is glad for his silence,
Free from temptation to return wound for wound.

Dwarf crossing,
Gaggle of children mocking his lurched gait.
No one stops them, the pain a blur of tears
Held in check by a voice, of his father. Memory:

          -- There is no just hatred.
          Let that poison in, son,
          And you may never let it go --

Fingers spasm.
Clench, sudden smile a twisting wound laughing
Faces try to mimic and - then - stuck
That way

Frozen as he turns, twisting private pain dance.
The horns give his silence a voice, a scream,
Pain. But there is always pain, and not redemption:
Children. Silent. Staring.