Across the dry desert
of the Bolivian altiplano
four men dig a grave,
silhouetted against the sunset.
Beside a rough box,
the size of a duffel bag,
two women weep, and
distance silences their cries.
Even on the edge of La Paz,
the city that touches the clouds,
heaven is far away.
Seeking to leave sorrow behind,
I descend the labyrinth
of narrow streets toward
Plaza Murillo's sidewalk cafes.
At the Mercado de las Brujas
mysterious food, herbs and charms
distract from street beggars.
Mothers with crying children,
toddlers with outstretched hands,
twisted faces pleading--
please, a peso, just
a meal today for the youngest.
Their cries choking my heart,
I escape across the street;
more begging children
like hungry dogs,
line the sidewalk.
At the cathedral
older, more established beggars,
several missing limbs, plead;
inside the quiet church
there is no solace.
Even in the sanctuary
where statues of saints
wear elegant finery
on altars of gold,
where candles burn,
where cross upon cross
incise sin and sorrow,
church after church
cannot bring justice to the poor.
