“Who are you?” asked the wind
I am the tear in the eye of the bereaved widow
The look of hopelessness in the eye of the destitute
The death rattle in the throat of a Palestinian child
As a death takes her soul
I am the blood diamond that sparkles
In the hands of a jeweler in Haifa
The cry that, as the machete descends,
Escapes the lips of a Rwandan
I am the anger in the breast of the Iraqi
Who sees his country raped
I am the ecstasy in the heart of a Sufi
Who attains the heights
The formless thought in the mind of a madman
The ashes that rise from funeral pyres in India
I am the Dalit who is shackled to the dust

The forlorn spirit in a hidden pyramid in Egypt
The writing in the dreaded Book of the Dead
The boatman on the river Styx
The whisper of a lover on a moonlit night
The cry of a baby as it emerges from the womb
The spirit that weeps in Africa as it gazes upon the dead
The growl of a lion as it leaps upon the prey
The whimper of the gazelle as it meets fate
The hidden hand that guides destiny
The thief that skulks in the dark
The angel that moves in the light
I am you as you stare into the eyes of your baser self
I am all of these things and more
I am less than a dust mote
I am nothing