The Blood-Soaked Handkerchief


I passed by the blood-soaked handkerchief
for the umpteenth time.
It was still lying there on the side-walk,
still surrounded by a myriad of
tiny
blood
drops,
now blackening.
No one has bothered to pick it up yet.
The garbage collectors in my country
don’t usually pay much attention
to
such
small
details.

The handkerchief
must have belonged to one of the
beggar boys
in the area.
That was their corner anyway.
That was where they usually
stood,
begged,
and,
sometimes,

fought.

I haven’t seen any of them
for a while.
In fact,
I haven’t seen any of them
ever since the blood-soaked handkerchief
made its appearance
on
the
scene.

The handkerchief was slowly rotten away,
I have noticed.
And the blood drops surrounding it
all continuing
to
blacken.

There are many blackened drops
all
over
the
side-
walks
of my country.
I used to think of them as drops
of
ordinary
filth,
or
asphalt.
But now I wonder,
I really do wonder
if we are not blackening
our
side-
walks
with the blood
of our derelict


children.




May 1995

Note: The right justification is intentional.