Blood Tears

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The dust, the flies, the stench;
It’s repulsive, to me – the new comer.

I hear the rustling of the few measly coins,
collected in the carved wooden bowl.

The bloated stomach, the protruding ribs,
the lack of clothing.

It is pitiful, this state they are in,
but they are doing their best to survive.

Humans with feelings, and a robbed life,
without chances, without hope.

They beg for their livelihood and get by,
without medicines, without staple food.

I reach out to them, and give them my heart,
for what more can a mere mortal do?

This is a race, from birth and death,
where bitterness is overwhelming.

And the poor get poorer,
while the rich get richer.

The circle of life continues with every breath,
it is indeed tragic.

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