Breaking Bread
Tiny dirty hands layered in filth, grim under the nails, what dread do you face as you toil and toil throughout the long frightful day?
There is no comfort behind broken walls, no comfort in mothers arms, no safety offered to your wondering soul. Tiny hands scavenge for food, finding only aged bones with little meat, few scraps to feed your aching abdomen. Those hands so small, so cold, trembling uncontrollably, wrapped around your petite frame, your mind replaying “How will I survive today?” But you toil, toil on.
The water there is none. Only blackened pools of thick mud and how you long to taste the cool refreshing drips on your tongue, to soak your calloused and bruised toes, but that fantasy has long been gone.
Feeling as though you where made to suffer, made to grieve, want and never to obtain you start to weep. Those hands, those tiny dirty hands reach up and gently push aside the free falling tears that seem to never stop.
Though you can’t see her, her pain is real.
A child of hunger, a child of fear, her wanting is palpable, honest, and correct, no lusting just dreams all shattered by circumstance and sadly she is not alone.
So as you sit in your homes surrounded by loving faces, grand objects and perfectly set dinner places, give thanks as your hands, clean and untouched by poverty break bread.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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