Those that the Gods Have Stricken

 You don't touch them,

not a hair on their heads,

though they rave

for the sake of the widow and the 

widow's son,

that your days be long and safe from the grave--

we knew that once, everyone.

There but for their grace go I--

and this once led the comfortable not

to deny the bread

to the hungry mouth or to be oblique:

Bind not the mouth of the kine

that trod the grain. 

We lost this wisdom and should seek it out--

and know one another again.

The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

The dust is thick on his sandals and in his hair

and you have denied him everywhere.

Enter the singer, his throat dry and

his body tired, although once he danced

with grace and ease.

He shouts that he hungers--give him bread.

Is he to be stoned, instead?

He thirsts, would you have him drink

bitter gall--or poison: think!

Do you treat him, Samaritan, for this dis-ease?

Or have you slain your brother in the midst

of his pain? 

And in your own way

carry the mark of Cain?