While we sit While we sit (Close but worlds apart) amidst the spark of words... In other places Lhasa's masters grind their heels on the children of Green Tara. Mostar's children, wide-eyed, hungry for laughter and summer stare across a bridge rebuilt not on hope but suspicion. (Hope spans fingertips- suspicion generations) From Hebron's streets paved with history blood and razorwire child poets check the shadows. And in Bhar al Gazal Sudans cool dark forests drink deep from rivers whose banks are littered with the bodies of the planets tallest people - brought low. All this - and somehow poems co-exist. OR Should we live our lives amidst scraps gathered from the editing room floor?   Post to The Peanut Gallery    ·    Send your comments to the poet   Previous   ·    Back to Sandy McCutcheon   ·   Next   Copyright ©1996, 1997 The Unofficial Soup Kitchen