The children are some pretty pictures
Like flowers dropped from dark nights,
Fragrant and white against an asphalt.
We scoop them up in cloth for worship.
Their fragrance is born of not knowing
Their feet headed towards brick slush.
The not knowing travels on their backs.
A red and blue sky drives them behind
To soft brick slush of the earth mother.
(About child workers in India’s brick kilns forced into a never ending slave labour by the extreme poverty of their parents)