- In his eighth decade he stands here free,
- emerged from the caged years, from
- the unintended monastery where reckless
- fire became the molten gold radiating now
- in his gaze, his voice, in the hand
- that holds Graca’s as he turns to
- leave the room, still guarded by
- blond Afrikaaners, surrounding
- him, glaring menace at the eager
- crowd, pressing against us to
- clear his way to wherever he wishes
- to be. A searing flash from a
- contraband camera and the white
- phalanx springs closer to him, arms
- raised—to protect. “No flash! No flash!”
- they shout. “It hurts his eyes.”
- They are gone.
- Mandela, his love,
- his white guards
- and any certainty
- we may have had
- that time brings only loss.
- .
- (Photo taken by the author. Without flash.)
