Who shall nourish the wretched of the earth?

Who, when the naked night places its cold breath

upon the starving child’s breast,

shall grant the hand of succour

and urge the blighted soul

to heal and rest?

A thousand hours of loneliness

imbued with suffering’s scourge,

broke the moving moments

into ten thousand more!

I saw the bodies piled high,

the graves that overflowed;

and no amount of soiled cash

can pay the debt that’s owed! 

Who shall love the wretched of the earth,

embrace the host of humankind,

turn all grasping into mirth,

or deftly mend a shattered mind?

A thousand days of festering wounds,

the blistered infant’s hands outreached,

grasp the empty wants of time,

the lessons hard that go un-preached.

But some still count the monied days

and look for value in paper trust,

while ghouls rob the work that pays

and trample labour into dust!

Who shall lead the wretched of the earth,

gather the scattered limbs and flesh, 

stitch the twisted sinews torn,

and mold new men with hearts of mesh 

as though they were reborn?

A thousand years the question screams,

the heralds clasp their hands and wait,

as unfed mouths still gnaw on dreams

and wonder at unfolding Fate:

Who shall lift up the wretched of the earth

and raise them high beside the Sun,

a beacon for the toil of days,

a message that the journey’s done?

Editor’s Note: Happy May Day!

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