Poem Charity

See her: head bowed, palms raised, pathetic in the street constant traffic passing by the body wrapped at her feet, another falling angel met with stoney stares that cut right through whilst passersby so coldly carry on with their own many critical concerns.

He has one leg and a battered wooden cane, an outstretched deformed hand to match his twisted face which has melted, as if from the heat of stares or the shame of backs that turned as he limped bytoo sensitive to see such sights on such a morn.

They, children all, cling together; parents stolen by needles that poisoned blood, stole breath. willfully forgotten they yet remain, doomed by the self-same stain that ravished their parents’ veins, hidden from view, in a sullied garden, far from mind.

In the temples, as the malls, the brass bands sound; the cymbals clash as those that know love, still disregard them they feel to be unworthy; ignorelike wearisome wolves -the lambs at their door; crowd out the swollen cries of dirty streets, the silent sobs of war-torn scenes; fearful of the tears that they may bleed.

B y M a i t i u B r a l l i g h a n ‘ 2 2