our mother's other children * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * (a canticle in search of compassion)

beyond the scripted,
convoluted ken
of the zombie army of corporate operatives;

outside the profit-ridden
failure of imagination,
with its sanguinary conceit
of imaginary borders;

past the putrid, narrow confines
cast by racistly conscripted,
patriotic glasses

our broken hearts connect
with frail human hands

so easy to recognise
(even in their hundreds of "inessential" millions)

by their humble aspirations
and fears for their children;

by their unexpressed longing,
unsuspected courage,
and soul-wrenching grief;

by their faults and their spurnings,
and their weary,
thankless trudgings;

in the stunning resilience
that radiates its question
in the stony, deadened face
of a centuries-old,
disparaging dis-empowerment;

in the fleeting, bracing glimpses
that grace those daring eyes
with an angelic vision
of their ebullient best;

in the secret, private callings
that breathe a billion beckons
from the numberless weave
of empowering paths;

in that spin of the ineffable,
incomprehensible kaleidoscope,
shimmering its facets
wrought entirely from dreams
and precious,
unique gifts.

these are the hands
of our mother's other children.

these are the strands
of our grandchildren's hopes.

they would bring us past the breach,
within compassion's
sweetest reach,

where our brothers
and our sisters
genuflect their careworn mirrors
that bathe our ancient yearnings
in the earth's resplendent peace;

where each of them harbours
a splendid, tingling piece
of our
ever so lonely,
oh, so human
selves.
* * * * * *

- Evan Hawthorn, the 4^th of June, 2017