Poverty
If poverty were human,
What would they be like?
Would he be stout and tall,
Unyielding in his ruthlessness?
Or a frail young woman,
Weary in her helplessness?
Would he stink of broken hopes,
And those of starved deaths?
Or would she smell of a long day,
And hard-earned pennies?
Would he have calloused fingers,
From years of crawling the dirt?
Or would she have frayed long lines,
Engraving her palm and destiny with silent endurance?
How would he look like when he smiled?
Sinister in his biased cruelty?
Or compassionate and patient,
In the face of unwarranted sufferings?
Lastly, how would the eyes be?
The windows to the soul, they say.
Would they be hard and grey,
With sadistic pleasure for the fallen?
Or would they be hopeful for what's to come,
And grateful for the little that they have?
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