we who have no will, no world:
marked with the marks of the latest anxiety,
disfigure, stripped of leaves.
Around us swirls the dust of the cities,
the garbage clings to us.
We are shunned as if contaminated,
thrown away like broken pots, like bones,
the last year's calender.
And yet if our Earth needed to
she could weave us together like roses
and make of us a garland
For each being is cleaner than washed stones
and endlessy yours, and like an animal
who knows already in its first blind moments
its need for one thing only-
to let ourselves be poor like that - as we truly are
Photo: Child and her mother, FSA Rehabilitation Clients, 1939 by Dorothea Lange