.....

The men stand outside the church,
or they walk down the uneven streets,
maybe sitting in coffee shops;
they count their prayer beads.
Click. Click. Click. Click...

For some it seems more like a nervous habit
than a practiced ritual.
The weight of their worlds,
their families,
the burden of knowledge:
the tracks of fifty years
of unshed tears
burning holes in their bellies.

The tough image of old men
carried forward by their sons
and taught to their grandsons:
it is not acceptable to cry.