Whispers of the Street

Hands stretched out,diseased and broken

Eyes hungry, filled with words unspoken

'Five Naira ma, ten Naira sir' they say

The streets their stage, their mendicity the play

It's a one man audience as I look through my window

'I need your help sir' one pleads 'I am a widow'

But will my fifty Naira get her off the road?

Or do I say 'I have none, silver or gold'...

Tears sneak around the corners of my eyes

Can't we all hear their pleas, their cries?

We are deaf to the song of the mendicant street

As the rich get richer while the poor kiss their feet

I take a walk back in my mind to the widow

Whose simple request I couldn't bring myself to follow

Can their stories be changed by you or me?

We are the revolution, we are the key...