Be careful when you call this world broken,
this world of small beauties and of large wonders;
this world of churches and Talmuds and hajjes,
acts of longing and of praise and of faith;
this world of of weariness, but also
of benches to rest on;
this world of soft smiles from strangers passing by;
this world of 24-hour gyms and 24-hour bus routes;
this world of stray cats that are friendly to you;
this world of full of weddings and holidays and
daydreams and joy and peace and hope and love.
This world of parks lit by gentle lamplight,
lauded by the sound of moths living
briefly, briefly.
This world of tectonic rage--
chasms and gulches formed by the
freedom of the Earth itself.
This world of slow dances with old lovers, locked
in their own universe in which they alone are equals.
This world of deepest sorrows that force you to fall
on others;
sorrows that break and mend fortify bonds.
This world that shelters the cries of the newborn
and the gasps and sobs of her father.
So be careful, when you call it that;
for we are all symptoms of this broken world.