Children of the Narrow Streets

Small pink-bellied hands
like thirsty tongues
licking at my heart,
and brown eyes sad
beyond my understanding.

They break me, these small dark
children of the narrow streets,
These wisps of wild uncared for lives-
Round grey balls for knees,
and skin as rough as sun-dried leather.
They sniff, they shout, they smile,
There is joy like spilled sunshine,
There is life- run, jump, fall-

And never cry.

Where is their pain?
The same sun warms their sun-dried skins
As shines upon my garden wall
And makes the diamonds dance
In a million scattered drops
That flow from my sweet scented fountain.

Those drops that fall
And dry to nothing
on the hot white concrete floor,
Do they sparkle any the less
Before they fall