Yesterday, I watched men sniff life out
the boy from the street over.
Their clubs doing the street’s bidding
clubs thrashing against skull & bone.
Blood. Screams. Thuds.
His plea dissipating with each landing.
I watched them disperse with his loot, at their eyes’
satisfaction of the skeletal specimen the fire left behind.
The women say he stole from the merchant’s shop.
It is the rule of the city;
To steal is no crime but to be caught.
Conscience is the language of the weak in this city.
Believe me when I say, here, everyone is a hypocrite,
crouched like a tiger. Waiting to pounce on the victim
who gets caught for the same crime they are guilty of.
But child, mother calls me.
Watch closely and you will see that there is more to the city,
than the naked eyes can see.
The beggar from the west, watches the city
as it unfolds, with a smirk on his face.
With alms the city has given him, he stands richer than her.
And yet blindly she continues to give.
Because he hides in the camouflage of a collar,
and robs the city with a gun carved out
of a crucifix and bullets from the scripture.