Hovels Of Poverty Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Shattered windows framing frightened faces,
terror-stricken hearts grasped in fear.

Sorrow, heads bowed down, wondering where
life will find them.

Holding hands, children slowly dodge the
obstacles in their way.

Hovels housing people in conditions of
poorest candor, sickness, and tuberculosis,
prevails in constant teams of strife.

Burnt out, burnt down, home has become the
cold outdoors, welcomed peace at a roadside
stand.

Beef, unknown beginnings lying in streets.

Stairs clinging to walls, flimsy, bent and
bowed with age.

Water turned on for only an hour, leaves no
time to sit or play.

Sewers flow along the front of homes,
stagnating in noses of the people.

Weaving rugs, a month it takes, ten dollars
for each one is not enough to live upon.

Babies staring out of windows, toyless,
barren, alone.

Teddy bears given and received in joy by
little ones, reaching out with hindered arms.

Strangers, kind and caring, stepping in and
providing care for babies, saving the hopes
and dreams of little lives.

Smiling faces at last on small Tibetan children.

Strength in very small numbers can accomplish
great and wonderful things.

Peace and love span eternity with just a look
returned in a quiet, desperate stare.