We were only passing by.

The slow traffic congregated,
blaring radio racket radiated
from every truck nearby.

But inside our crippled car
just like inside each one of us
stood an unwavering silence.

It was a late afternoon,
and already dust settled on the sun,
but we kept our windows down,
letting the hum, the continuous
breathing noise
synchronize with our anxious pulse.

We dragged down the broken cobblestones,
passing the long, indifferent faces of locals whose
black shimmering eyes invaded, imprinted,
their possible stories into our turbulent minds.

And then we stopped
and saw.

He sat on the steps,
with a grey woman standing in the back,
solemn, hands folded,
lips pressed into a single line.

He was tiny, untidy.

Looking point blank at us.
Sat and at times dug dirty fingernails
into the tender skin of his forearms.

That look on his face,
with swollen eyelids and grazes,
dry tear streaks on bronze cheeks,
spoke of a stifled tantrum.

We winced and simply stared,
dumb.

Then drove off with little care,
thinking, convinced
that we were only passing by.