The people who are without food are like a bare night sky. Their faces move across the landscape, each one a fading star. Their delicate frames move unnoticed, unexplained travelers. The people who are without food wish for nothing more. They smile at angry visitors who pass by their dwellings and scoff at their bones. The people who are without food see ghosts next to them. They have loved, given of themselves, and they have wept. Like jutting shadows they pass without notice. The people who are without food are like a bare night sky. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)