Читать книгу Other Seasons - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 19

he walked the city streets looking

at the wandering priests, mothers,

dealers, junkies, and aging drunks

who live in different worlds. they

looked like strangers to him carved

from simple clay, names of flesh

and bone, tossed across the altars

of the earth, and planted with too

many longings. sometimes, he

imagined whispering to their wintered

hearts a world of things about sleeping

in a cardboard box, the wine bottle in

his exhausted hands, the family he no

longer knows, and the burning-bush of

nightly dreams that does not speak.

when his huge beggar eyes teared with

sparrows infinitely near, you could

see him sunk in silence finally whisper God

is hunger, not love.