Dear old woman;
wandering not even a road,
just the dirt on the African floor.
Seated solemnly next to babes of youth;
they hunger and squeal for nourishment of food.
Somber eyes seek out a light;
In all of this darkness.
Her guilt erected;
if she takes a bit of ration.
Again, the children;
the compassion.
Teardrops swell up in her eyes.
Turning her head to the body of salted water;
Her thoughts turn to flinging herself into the abyss.
In her ninety years of struggle,
The loss of many sons to battles,
The thoughts triumph.
But the action itself is left behind;
as she huddles next to the children of mankind.
by melissa rubin
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