As though seeking a higher knowledge
That will liberate her,
With a wailing child on her hips,
She wanders with one arm outstretched,
Only waiting to catch the next nickel
That may be flung at her wretchedness.
Just twenty-four thousand more like her child
Will turn quiet again tomorrow,
Their hunger, their wails, their emaciation,
Unseen, unheard, unsung.
And tomorrow, even more men
Fat, wealthy, and insentient,
Will be liberated into eternal silence,
Unseen, unheard, unsung.
Did someone swear that money cannot liberate?
