|
The Cold
Within
An
ancient fable. This version is by James Patrick Kenny
Six
humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold.
Each one
possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.
Their
dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,
For of
the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next
man looking 'cross the way saw one not of his church,
And
couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The
third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch.
Why
would 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, shiftless 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.
The last
man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
Giving
only to those who gave was how he played the game.
Their
logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin.
They
didn't die from the cold without.
They
died from the cold within.
|
