Framed portraits of the president
and local mayor beam down from walls
flaking for lack of paint.
Lined up on trolleys, here they lie - the poor.
Some have been here for days
with cardboard strips for mattresses
and saline drips.
The lights stay on all night
dried blood smears the enamel of a bed
a pot of urine lies upon the floor -
no-one removes it.
Two doctors hold an X-ray up
of two unequal lungs.
They shake their heads.
I see the shrivelled owner
staring into space.
Waiting for what?
Treatment? A cure? Or death?
I think he knows.
A wheelchair brings a lolling man
'He isn't breathing'.
The screens go round
but I can see his feet
jerking as doctors try to save his life.
A sheet's drawn over him
'Brought in dead.' they say.
I learn the lesson once again:
The poor die slowly and in pain.
Meanwhile, skyscrapers sprout on the horizon.
The president and local mayor smile down.
A better future?
Possibly for some.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem