Haiku for closed eyes.
Poor man Lazarus,
by the gate, covered
with sores;
we walk right past
him.
The unnamed rich
man,
dressed in purple,
fine linen,
feasting ev'ry day.
Discarded food
scraps
do not reach the
rich man's gate
or the beggar there.
Empathy fails us.
Please don't disturb
our comfort.
Make the beggars
leave.
Death comes to us
all.
Rich or poor, it
matters not;
was your life
worthwhile?
Where are your
riches;
From where will your
comfort come
when your life has
passed?
Send me Lazarus,
or let him warn my
brothers
that they might be
saved.
That's not how it
works.
Let them listen to
Moses,
and the prophets too.
We'd rather not
know.
Even when it's God
who speaks,
we do not listen.
©
Ken Rookes 2016
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