These children tell a
tale of timeless days that blend
seamless into one
another; a string of pain in
darkness and well lit
hunger.
An emptiness repeating in
every face and sorrow deeper than any
western sigh blackens souls young
and old, aging equally
as open hands tremble
lined with nothing
but dust.
I watched when my own height
struggled upward and my belly
brimmed; dolls and trees and laughter lit
my heart and I wondered then,
Who will ebb their aching?
Soon this flesh will clasp
my tired brothers;
these pink unused hands will feed
hold, teach, pray
flow back into their souls
a fraction of my blessings
and work through seamless days
lined with nothing
but love
and dust.
