They lay upon the streets choking on their own. Mounds of people desolate in their being. Wait. And breathe in again. Kicked in the gut; split like lumber. This is a home. Animals have a home. Wait. And breathe in again. Boxes propped up in the rain. Empty cans rot. Feeding is done. Could they have hunger? Is it ours that they’re hungry? Wait. And breathe in again. Displaced assassination. Soul tainted by remark. Hold. The starving soul echoes back and lives in our queried gaze. Is this anyone’s “life”? Wait. And breathe in again. Shoes leaking dirt on new snow. Fingers hold paper canopy encasing country’s dishonor. This is not a life, is it? I think it is best to live. Wait. And breathe in again. Perhaps the hand will move. Will hope spring? Will death take notice of this? Will the good in man change them? Will our naked shame bow softly? Will we course this toward nurturing? Will the hope of man succumb to hunger? Will the pride of man not rip itself from within? ...
(The Weaver's Song)