Six humans…..By Jackline Waitherero
Six humans trapped by happenstance,
In black and bitter cold,
Each possessed a stick of wood,
or so the story is told.
Their dying fire in need of wood,
The first woman held hers back,
For the faces around the fire,
She noticed one black.
The next man looking across the way,
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give,
The fire his stick of birch.
The third man sat in tattered clothes,
He gave his coat a hitch,
Why should his log be put to use,
To warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat and thought,
Of all the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned,
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man’s face bespoke revenge,
As the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood,
Was a chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group,
Did naught except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave,
Was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death stilled hands,
Was proof of human sin,
They didn’t die from cold without,
They died from cold within.