Wealth of Poverty

The empty spilling glass stands high,

Teasing the parched peasants.

Their tears water the arid ground they lie upon,

Etching on them their painful plight.

At home in the soaking cities,

Built on scraps left unused

By faces that don constant smiles

Because never had they need not to.

Those poor souls they pity as they wait

For a cause that ushers them to their safety

Of cushions and robes, that deprives them

Of time to give a much needed pauise

They fill up their glasses from the

sparkling pool made from those sun-drenched eyes.

Uncaring of its price, They selfishly retreat

To sip as they subside.