AT THE TEMPLE
As I walk in the gates of the temple, a priest newly ordained,
Everyday I see a woman with sores on her feet,
She sells cucumbers, and she is lame,
And she shuffles her feet on a dirty yellow sheet.
She spits into the drain, a little to her left,
And wards off flies with a piece of cloth.
To her right sits a beggar, dozing against the wall,
With matted hair, and a bundle he rests on a block.
It must be dear to him for I have never seen
Him sitting on the block instead; even when the ground is wet.
There is also a child- his bloated belly is obscene.
He chases the dogs away from the food he gets
By begging from the people who eat breakfast in a shop nearby.
His mother lies by the side of the gate
Where the high drain wall keeps off the rain,
Or the sun. And they all wish to be healed.
Even the sleep of the damned have dreams of redemption.