Poverty

In the bleak night, ‘pon lonely street of Capitol Bye Pass, Mine stomach’s growl, louder than thunder’s clash, Mine lips, pink and cracked like parched earth’s skin, I lift mine gaze, pleading to the heavens for a drop of rain’s kin. With naught a penny to purchase water’s keep, I stand on chilly walk, embracing self to find warmth’s reap, Lo! A sight unfolds, a carriage grand and rare, A man alights, bedecked in black with an umbrella fair. Lost as a sheep, I stand before the data vendor’s stall, Beseeching this man for aid in my academic call, Lo! He purchases a card, with a hundred dollars bestowed, Mine heart, shattered like glass, its fragments overflowed. Unseen, unheard, by this man’s disdainful sight, He returns to his carriage, swift as a bird in flight, A single tear, unbidden, escapes mine eye, Wiped away swiftly, so the vendor won’t spy. ‘Tis then I know, life is a cruel knave, My hatred for poverty doth fiercely crave, Dragging weary feet towards mine humble abode, In mine chamber, I weep, and cry out to God. Oh, wretched poverty! I despise thee so! With every ounce of my being, thy presence I forego, I wish thee naught, to banish from existence’s reign, For poverty, thou art man’s direst bane. Thy bite, thy pain, thy lethal grip, Even in life’s façade, thou taketh thy sip, Reducing one to naught, a mere semblance of man, Thou strip away dignity, as only thou can. Why must I endure days devoid of nourishment’s care? Why must I face bitter cold with no shelter to share? Why must I toil, a servant in unjust decree, When all mankind, in truth, were made equal and free? Why must I suffer, bound by poverty’s hold? Why must my kin, my country, friends be ensnared in its fold? Why must I tread paths where food is but a dream, White rice without soup, a meager, tasteless regime? Why must I endure, penny-less and parched, Unable to buy water, within my grasp far-fetched? Why must I subsist on dry gari and salt alone? Why, I ask, must this suffering be my own? Though pain, shame, and rejection be thy bitter fruits, I find solace in Jesus, amidst life’s pursuits, Yet, as a human, the ache of material want stings, For poverty’s taste, bitter it brings. It smells of brimstone, like the smoke from hell’s pyre, An unbearable burden, consumed by its fire. So, in old English tongue, with rhythmic refrain, I lament this plight, in hopes it will wane.