The Poor

The eyes of the poor are binoculars
that see from a distance
whether the berries and dates are ripe
Even from far off they know
where to find dry wood and dung

In the bellies of the poor there are hearths
always smoking and burning
where bread is baked
their cheeks are stuffed full of onions
their sliced tongues red like chilli peppers
that bring tears of joy to these eyes

Steam pours from the souls of the poor
which makes trains move and steamers go
From their sweat comes fuel
From their blood all the colour in the world
Their will to survive casts a light
which makes the philosophers’ solemn faces glow
Their humour rejuvenates the old sages

A poor woman carries in her womb
mysteries of the world’s vices and virtues
her rough hands as generous as
a fruit-laden tree
The poor call their women by so many names
Their vocabulary is full of synonyms
The poor are all poets . . .
You are poor you realised
watching the bread bake
thinking of the mortality of a live coal
You have always been poor
You tied up your bedding with some string from your old, broken
cot and hung it from the ceiling . . .

I am not poor –
I have cut sleeves off my ripped shirt
and made it into a bush-shirt
I have unravelled the edge of my undershirt
to use for my pant’s drawstring
I pinned together my broken rubber sandals
At least I have something to prick with
I am not poor.

THE POOR