There was something in his gaze that touched me.
So quietly present, so full of trust, asking for nothing.
I painted him slowly, layer by layer,
as if he could choose when he wanted to be seen.
I folded his hands without reason,
just because it felt right.
As if he found rest, just sitting there.

Maybe this isn’t protest.
There was something in his gaze that touched me.

So quietly present, so full of trust, asking for nothing.

I painted him slowly, layer by layer,

as if he could choose when he wanted to be seen.

I folded his hands without reason,

just because it felt right.
As if he found rest, just sitting there.

Maybe this isn’t protest.
Maybe it’s simply a child being entirely himself.
And that is already enough.
Maybe it’s simply a child being entirely himself.
And that is already enough.