Her Name Is Poverty
She tells me,
Of the belt of hunger that clings to her waist,
Of how it's only ever loosened by rampaging and rummaging through waste.
She tells me,
How her journey through payments, predicaments and pavements make her tire,
How her cracked feet and wracked heart are passed by Tyre after Tyre.
She tells me,
About the intricate diagnoses and prognoses that riddle her every fiber, vessel and vein,
About the cardboard pleas and pleads that have all been in vain.
She tells me,
That this is the existence her weeping womb has bred,
That her hope for her successors is that they may succeed her in the fight for bread.
She tells me,
Her name is poverty.
Do you remember her?
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