WOULD A FATHER ...?
Legs like stems,
arms, hands, like withered leaves,
face a smiling bone
with huge eyes -
late, too late,
the rain, the water!
(Come, my children)
Lies we tell each other,
tell ourselves:
they ask for bread,
are given a stone.
(Come, my innocents)
Kwashiorkor ... irreversible.
Another one dies.
...
And another.
...
And another.
...
And another.
