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Can I allay man's acceptance 
of poverty which was not a dire circumstance before?
On those past days of summer the stale from bread crumbs fell 
onto the lidless eyes of each child, woman on the street while my hands stretched out in full vanity ...
my very core frustrated, angry as I
walked without faith;
this self- imposed conceit ruling my thoughts as I served the community for my own glory.

And though I wished for more nights abundant that will quench their souls, 
I slaved, part of my time dedicated to teach them how to make a living-- 
but can I wish for the morning sun to come and glow behind the ridges of a slum village wrecked by knives of hunger?

'Empathy denied by pride! '

How could I befriend genuine charity
when my self- centered heart
hungered for personal gain, the applause 
of greatness  screaming from tin cans and rice bowls of unpriveleged families? 

How full of myself was I, 
anticipating honors for service rendered,  
an accompaniment to my thirsty pride...
and like so, reaping poor men's 
adulation, I became more empty,  
more devoid of inner peace...

Into deep mournings, prayers sought me:
Who is poorer of spirit-- the giver or the taker?
I pause now...another tomorrow begins,
baptism of  epiphany flames the belly.

Another day arrives, my hope and transformation refreshed.

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