Plead Mercy
We pass a bullock yoked to a cart
straining uphill. He
shivers
with effort, his bones
Protrude and the taut skin quivers
At each whip of sharp – throned stick
There is no expression on his face
Only his eyes plead mercy
Foam slavers from his lips
As he travails to increase his pace
And slips. My daughter asks
Does he think life is
worth living ?
I tell her what I know
Is not true, that life
Is always better than death
She frowns
If there is a revolution, she says
I’ll kill myself. All
these horrible things
They do to people
The bullock has fallen on the rough
Edge of the road, He tries
But in spite of the
Stick he cannot rise
Lord have Mercy on his eyes
My daughter is just thirteen.
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