Phil Charters

(11/05/1958 / Australia)

A Tear Falls


A tear falls
and slowly tracks
inflicted sadness
that dwells upon the face
of a woman, homeless
in the face of war.
Silent anger: fear
held in the wetness of the tear,
to the breast falls,
a baby suckles, feeds,
in the tumult of a thousand
beings, fleeing, homelands;
their lives tossed upon the
violent wind of history:
forever cast, unwanted upon
the conditional mercy
of those of more fortunate birth.
A tear falls. A mother cries,
in a field of shattered dreams,
on bended knees; her baby feeds
while the world passes by,
unconcerned, uncaring,
no word of comfort spoken.
It is but, the nightly news,
and this mother, this baby,
are naught, but the produce of history,
to live or die as the dictator sees fit,
buried beneath the endless wave
of human misery.
Their graves unmarked,
their lives unknown,
the centuries past
hold them all condemned,
forgotten.
Progress deems a human
now can walk the realm of Gods,
while the soul remains uncleansed.
Progress?
Progress, I think not.

Submitted: Friday, August 20, 2010

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