The hunger was the woman with a friendly, foreign name-tag.
That busy Saturday.
A miracle healer, as pale as milk, passed through the city –
a reminder that we all had our role to play in the war.
For a moment, his voice stopped the curious shoppingbagscrowd-
echo between tall cement buildings.
A sudden rain followed, baptised my sleeping bag,
in the queue at the Lower Street Food Bank.
The history sliced a nearby road in tiny squares of holy bread.
– published in International Times, available here