Cold Hearts

If I could paint

I would paint the pain

In the old womans eye

The pain with which she hesitatingly puts her palm forward

To beg

Not knowing whether she will get some loose change

Or harsh words

She looks expectant

As people pass her

But no one can see her shivering

With age and wind

There is no offer for her of a cup of tea

With few warm words

She is ignored

For most she is part of background clutter

And she is shooed off

Like a rabied dog or a fly

The woman turns around one last time

Seeing no kind faces

She huddles down in a corner

Trying to cover herself

By wrapping old newspaper

For its brutaly cold this year

But colder have turned our hearts

Which can’t see others pain

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