|i have exactly eight hundred and eighty-eight deviations in storage.|
The Challenges Of Charity1The Challenges Of Charity by AlecBell
Waif is a word that might
have described him, or wraith
(as my dictionary says:
pale, thin, disembodied)
-a fragment of anonymity.
He stood before me for all that,
defiantly himself, no other,
even deprived of his name.
The mug that he held out
was all that he could claim for identity,
the mug and a label strung
round his neck, inscribed
with language that he was unable to own.
He stood there, embarrassed, defeated,
perhaps twelve, apparently alone.
He stood wordless before me and begged.
Let me be your shelter, sweet one,
In my arms learn to forget.
Listen, the sad words of my song
Will bathe your wounds of neglect.
None of us could see her.
All of us stolid, unable share
a solitary mite of her pain.
Each one turned from her,
hiding himself as he stared
at nothing at all..
Her song just didnt
belong on a commuter train.
Even the track conspired against her,
causing the car to crash and thunder.
The delicate music she made,
that must have echoed through
the lost summer valley