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A woman writes about two women

living on the streets of Jerusalem,

destitute.

A good subject for a poem―

they, and the other one thousand million

They stare at giant hunger

trying to make friends with him. Maybe

he's got some bread in his pockets.

He tells them, "Sorry,

what might have filled your bellies

has gone into making rockets."

“Or just a little pill," they say,

“that we may forget for one day

that we are condemned to live."

"Sh-h," he cautions them, “don't you know

pills are forbidden? They

don't want you to become dope-ridden."

They stare and stare at giant hunger —

stare until they see

a glorious sun

coming through the rags of buildings,

suspended above the tatters of the street

in the shape of a huge bun.

Get bulldozers and make a long trench

right round the world

for them when they die.

When it is full, sprinkle earth on the dead—

earth (that grows wheat which

they never ate) for remembrance.

And raise up a monstrous golden monstrance

and chant in Latin and Sanskrit

Then spray the earth with tar

and make a smooth, smooth road

of those who made one thousand million

destitute

and let them die.

And border it with roses and sad nightingales

to tell the harvest moon

those unknown lovers' tales.

―FRANCIS BRABAZON

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