The Least of These
On a lonely littered hillside
Sweating in the summer heat,
Digging through the bits of garbage
Laying rotting at his feet.
Perhaps a few old bread crumbs
Or a sip for a mouth gone dry,
Just enough to keep him going
Until he too lies down to die.
And we sit at nightly banquets
Feasting till we cannot eat,
Throwing what we have left over
In a can out on the street.
When you push back from the table
Letting out a satisfied sigh,
Do you see the world that’s dying?
Can you hear the children cry?
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