This life that had swallowed giants,
unloved by a few angels-
the crispy saints with crumbs of grey,
found the climb a forbidden task
and so embraced its poverty song.

Then sometime our pride shall return,
not in shreds of civilization
nor in 'purdahs' of liberation
not in white gloves to prevent the palms from
blood-stain
but perhaps in crying faces.

Faces matured from torments
of poverty born by a greed to destroy our home.
























blood-stain