THE COLD WITHIN

Dear All,

A good friend of mine, Dominic from Mumbai has sent me this poem.

He said that after reading my recent posts on the charitable school in Mungpoo, this would be very appropriate.

I will let you be the judge of that but i do agree that it is quite good.

Enjoy & Have A Nice Day.

Regards,

Vishal.

The Cold Within

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Six humans trapped by happenstance

In black and bitter cold.

Each one possessed a stick of wood,

Or so the story's told.

Their dying fire was in need of logs,

But the first woman held hers back

For on the faces around the fire,

She noticed one was black.

The next man looking across the way

Saw one not of his church,

And couldn't bring himself to give

To the fire his stick of birch.

The third man sat in tattered clothes;

He gave his coat a hitch.

Why should his log be put to use

To warm the idle rich?

The rich man just sat back and thought

Of the wealth he had in store.

And how to keep what he had earned

From the lazy poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge

As the fire passed from his sight,

For all he saw in his stick of wood

Was a chance to spite the white.

And the last man of this forlorn group

Did naught, except for gain.

Giving only to those who gave

Was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death's still hands

Was proof of human sin.

They didn't die from the cold without,

They died from the cold within.