Hunger
Hunger and
hollowness in their eyes haunt my dreams;
I see withered hands clutching bowls made of stainless
steel.
On the ground they slump;
sun and sweat glisten on their faces
(or is it tears?); fingers
are all I see—a thousand twitching, grasping fingers and
grimaces and
dark shadows concealing
living, bitter eyes.
Tent flaps snap fiercely in the wind.
On this face, there is blood escaping the corners of his lips
and
over there are distorted arms half-buried in dust.
The cacophonous clang of ladles grating empty pots
is a lullaby
to the throbbing head on the sand.
