There are splintered window sills
Full of wasps carrying about
Their daily business,
While a beggar limps down the unpaved, dusty road,
clinking what few precious pebbles he possesses in his rusty can.
And the children with dirty faces and blistered feet,
Race and trip over one another in a mad scramble
For a bread crumb lying next to a cobweb in the corner
Of an old, deserted market.
The women in rags stand on the street corner, selling themselves and their
Commodities to any vile being that will
Do what it pleases with them, and
Drunken men fall off their bar stools,
Compare their scars of a past reality, and
Tell fictional stories of the better life that
Everyone is afraid of hoping for.
But all the while in a small cabin half way down the street,
A nearly unnoticed, dim flame upon a stick of
Molten wax, flickers in a
Nearby window pane.