No AIDs In Bethlehem
The nightmare takes possession of the mind
day by day, greater conquest spreads its scope
all other thought, the lights joy and hope
are snuffed: the stain of death spreads unconfined.
It is not me: I am not giving way
to pessimism, to ancestral gloom;
death stalks the mothers, fathers, bride and groom
the starving children are the ones who stay.
You read? Your pot of memory sprung a leak?
You bend your thought to matters of decor?
(The average life in Africa is thirty four).
You will not hear; therefore I cannot speak!
This is too much: no AIDs in Bethlehem.
I cannot say, I cannot say, Amen.
Copyright © 2004 -
Harold Macdonald, Poems from the Eighth Decade