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An Imperfect Life poetry by Fr. Harold Macdonald |
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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.
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