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The raga muffin invisibly stood there;
lone tears wrapping themselves
around his heart. Blue skies had lost
their luster---gone dark like clothes
of those who had to mourn
the blessed children they had borne.
You see, hunger does not knock---
just bellies in---whirling through empty spaces
like winds leaching cracks in an abandoned barn
rotting in barren fields no longer sown.
He tries to imprison himself in sleep
that delays the storming hunger pangs---
seeking that dark abysmal realm---to fill
the vacuous abdominal lanes.
Old hunger does not knock---
through the cracks of life---it seeps in
like sun rays through poorly shaded panes.
For him, each day is an audacious dare.
His life just grows invisible
to those who say they really care.
No, hunger does not knock---
just boldly creeps right in
and demands its share.
Within his soul, life and death struggle;
but suicide is the greatest of sins---
only the Master must decide:
who, where and when.
Yes indeed, hunger does not knock---
just plows its walks right in.
God bless this land of plenty we got;
here, starvation is not a sin.
