In a dusty Mexican colonia,
a knock at the gate of the orphanage
signals the arrival of a visitor;
I open the gate,
and there before me
stands a woman dressed in rags,
her young yet aged face blackened
with the soot and grime of the cares of this world;
Two scrawny, ill-clad children timidly peek out from behind her,
their tiny wrists tightly clutching her blouse;
She tells her story:
Her husband is dead,
a random casualty of the wrath
of an indiscriminate tornado,
and, with nowhere to turn,
they have nothing to eat.
A bucket of leftover table scraps,
normally reserved for the pigs,
is summoned forth;
A half-eaten mixture of
refried beans, menudo, and corn tortillas
slowly oozes into her cooking pot,
and through tears of joy,
she blurts out a thousand thanks at the
sight of another day's sustenance.
I gently close the gate,
and out of utter revulsion and horror
at such poverty and destitution,
I weep the tears of Jesus.