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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=580064" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To An African Child Starving To Death</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(References to the nightingale and the Grecian urn are to the two wonderful odes by Keats, and the athlete dying young recalls the lovely poem by Housman) .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">.....................................</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You unprepossessing brat! <br>You are no nightingale, no Grecian urn, <br>not even any athlete dying young -<br>ah, dying young perhaps, but you never were<br>an athlete, never strove, <br>never achieved, <br>never broke<br>any records, nor, I suppose, <br>any hearts that might mourn for you, <br>except perhaps for your mother, <br>who sits there dumbly with sagging breasts<br>waiting for you to die, staring vacantly<br>from no past that could ever be celebrated<br>towards no future in the burning sands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God curse the fate that brought me here<br>to have to write an ode for such as you, <br>unmemorable, already unremembered<br>even before you are dead! <br>to write in such a horrid spot<br>revolting in its barrenness and heat<br>that never ends -<br>that brings no peace ever -<br>that brings no poetic thoughts -<br>no inspiration -<br>nothing but dull, prosaic perspiration<br>which I must wipe from my brow<br>as you stare at me<br>with those damned eyes -<br>the eyes of the damned -<br>the innumerable damned -<br>and what am I to do? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would rather look past you<br>than see those hollow eyes<br>and sunken cheeks again; <br>but all I see is your mother close to you<br>sitting wordlessly<br>as it were in reproach -<br>but what am I to do? <br>I had a mother too, you know -<br>she is dead now, <br>as, no doubt, you also soon will be<br>and no doubt your mother too.<br>She would look -<br>she would look like that <br>at me sometimes hopelessly<br>reproaching my incapacity; <br>my lack of any ode; <br>my inability to see<br>my nearness to death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see that you would like to speak, <br>but you cannot, your throat is too parched, <br>as I am too parched<br>to write as I should write<br>an ode to you<br>to save you some kind of immortality -<br>ah, if I could, <br>I promise you I would, <br>to save myself also some kind of immortality<br>and even relief from the drought of my life….</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see your skin is dry; <br>it is like parchment in the sun.<br>I touch it, and it seems to cling -<br>it chafes against me -<br>under your ribs I feel<br>your heartbeat impossibly faint, <br>the pulse of your life trying to reach my hand<br>as my arms reach for you through the dust in the air<br>to feel your death coming for me in our embrace -<br>and let us share this, <br>for I know<br>that death has visited me like this before, <br>leaving me unpoetically, impotently to die unmourned, <br>as my soul may die again now without an ode<br>in your clasping skeletal arms<br>reaching out for mine<br>as I hold you close and precious -<br>my unprepossessing<br>anonymous brother.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rory+Hudson">Rory Hudson</a><div class=q>
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You unprepossessing brat! 
You are no nightingale,..."></div>
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