The Tired Hungry Child That The Teacher Did Not See
The morning bells were soft with gold,
The children’s laughter bright and clear—
But in the back, a shadow cold,
A little one sat trembling here.
Her hands were folded, small and still,
Her eyes half-dreams, half dark dismay;
The world beyond the window sill
Was warmer than the room that day.
No bread had touched her tender mouth,
No mother’s kiss had graced her hair—
The lesson spoke of stars and south,
But no one saw her blank, far stare.
And when they sang of love divine,
Of mercy, hope, and charity—
Her voice was silent, not from spine,
But hunger’s mute simplicity.
O teacher, bent on chalk and line,
How many hearts you failed to see—
While one small soul grew pale, malign,
For want of bread—and empathy.
Now dusk will cradle her to rest,
The stars her meal, the wind her prayer;
And angels weep at her small breast—
For all the eyes that were not there.
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