|Poem and Photo, Chaya Silberstein|
In the morning, face is smeared with
black liner and crumbling make-up seeps into
cracks, accentuating impending age. Voice is
hoarse and raspy. "Must have coffee," or
space will be a thing to stare at, as body is
peeled off of bed. We flit through the
world as shadows. Obscure silhouettes,
grotesque and clumsy.
But at dusk, our light begins to shine. We
come out in numbers and illuminate the
field. Wherever we go, we are known and
spread childlike delight. Everyone wants to
see us, some try to capture us, the
best let us go.