The Home

We are the ones who lives in shoe boxes,
chasing the debilitating ups and downs of stocks and shares
in numbers and percentages telling no stories of our core integrity
but just wonders of all that is solid melting into air.

We watch the wiry old ones living on paper card boxes,
pushing them, with flimsy carts, days and nights ,
like Sisyphus rolling the rock round the clock
for few cents in exchange for few cheap bites.

We bury our young ones with a feeding spoon,
dipping their heads in a heap of mind blowing,
if not mind boggling notes and textbooks
for a certificate which secures a seat in the Central concrete cave.

When shall we get back our souls long sold to Mephistopheles?
When shall we stop chasing after a better bit of bread money but truly see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower?
When shall we free our children from the invisible hand, running non-stop round the circle girdling free souls, round and round the Wheel of getting and spending, tossing and turning in the nauseating nothingness?

Our home is, indeed, too much with us--

Yet we shall never let go our combatant spirit to turn rags into riches,
but sluice them in the new womb, hold them, and mould them in our Habour of Victory,
fighting for our true dignity in the pool of blood with stars.

by Kathy