Group 4 — on Humanity

My grandma was knitting a sweater, It was looking better and better. Half way through, I told grandma That in my friend's sweater I saw A thread come loose, and we tried To pull that thread, the defect hide, The more we pulled, the more it run For a short while it was lots of fun, But very soon after the start The whole sweater had come apart. My grandma moved closer to me Slowly knitting, for me to see How the whole sweater was one thread Pulling any knot, the sweater was dead. It is the same with truth, love and justice They are one fabric, made from one piece, One lie anywhere, black or white Affects all truth, darkness cast on light; Any kind of hate, without debate, Diminishes love, sooner or late; The smallest injustice anywhere Threatens justice everywhere; Life is just like a sweater Any destruction will matter.

We go to school and then college In meticulous pursuit of knowledge Become learned and grow wise Yet we scarcely realize The information that we learn Dispassionately our hearts turn Away from love and courage; Curse of our age, heart disparage. The price we pay for our knowledge A hardened heart, lack of courage.

In the street, a young man made an appeal "I am hungry, I desperately need a meal. " Quickly I checked how it made me feel And how with his wish I wanted to deal. Compassion arose, my heart was not steel My open purse the means did reveal. Took him somewhere away from the chill To his heart's content, his belly did fill Pleased with myself I was on my way To complete my chores for that day. Soon I heard another young man say "I am hungry, for food I too, pray." And then one more, and one more young man While the City pan-handling did ban. To drive this problem underground Seemed so absurd, insane, unsound. To face the problem eye to eye Would give us a chance at least to try, And if compassionately we pry These young lives we'll dignify. I threw my arms up in despair Does anyone see? Does anyone care? I felt like a loan crusader Hopelessly standing over there Then I recalled the saintly word In that hour of despair and discord, "Think not the things that need be done You're powerless, and will do none. Think what it is that you can do Empower yourself, hope renew. " So I thought that at least that night I helped a young soul his hunger fight, Till another time, another young man, I'll help with whatever I can. To help a man with what you can Better than changing the City plan. With myself I made this simple vow To deal with each moment in the now. Divine stirrings of my soul My life shall guide, my purse control.

Traveling in India, I came across A shocking sight, to describe I am at loss. A badly burnt beggar, he was so disfigured To let him live, you'd surely say nature had erred. Instinctively I turned away, I looked aside, I realized this is the way ourselves divide. I decided to turn to him, exert my will Though I knew to look at him would make me ill. It was strange, for in his eyes myself I saw How would I feel if I were in his body now? Then a wave of compassion swept over me I realized in one stroke I could be he; As "the Freak", by everyone he's outcast This seems to be his destiny, to his last. And what about disfigurement of my soul? With mishaps in my psyche burning a hole? Would I brand my own flaws as a "freak"? Ignoring them, turning away, makes me weak! The solution is to recognize all my flaws Though painful, spend time, on them pause Better to tend to my wounds, let them heal For much about my own life they reveal, Give them attention, love them with respect For my whole too includes this aspect. And the beggar is also creature divine His soul too I must treat just as mine.

"Rain City Grill" reads the neon light A restaurant with an expensive bite Homeless and hungry passing its sign Advertising fine dinner with wine None can go there to wine or dine Will not cross that invisible line. Yet the dumpster they'll search and mine For leftovers that glow and shine. To the hungry and poor that neon light Reads as "Pain city" with knuckles White The glitter of that neon sign Is an invisible border line To cross which you'll need a passport With a green back and pictures of sort. The neon glitter will gladly out glow Human compassion, with its worldly Show.

The cawing crows Chattering sparrows Street vendor's calls Monotonously fill the halls The car engines hum As they go and come The airplane lingers a while The noisy silence thus defile My hosts sleeping sound Their servants milling around Salvador Dali on the wall Ancient stone heads large and small The air is damp yet cool Outside, sun's burning full. A rich island in the city Flaming sea of poverty; Many such islands like oases Sheltering the few from sweltering seas Driven from one island to the next Never touch poverty nor know its context. Yet the majority are floating Upon their broken boats are gloating; Some are floating by the wreckage Others receiving whatever package; Some are eaten alive by the sharks Hunger and disease, sleeping in the parks During daylight or midnight dark Both life and death leaving their mark. Yet there is a strange resignation No antagonism, no indignation; And they accept life as it is They gladly receive what life gives, Yet some swim from sandy shore, And some trade their wreck for more, Some leave their island with hope Sit in a boat, untie the rope; Some leave their boat with a leap, Benefit of some experience may reap. But no-one knows what morrow brings A swimming shark or pearl strings And this is how life should be In any place for me and thee.