The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath.
It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

~ William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Weary Spirit, I’m weak and on my knees;
I weep for all we know is wrong with me—
for nothing, to the suffering I see;
for caring that won’t come in ways that please.
Empty, yet empathy’s the deepest drive;
survives, trapped within patterns of retreat,
with each new war more fissured with defeat;
when family dies leaving loved-ones half–alive.
Bird-like, cries crack the membranes of kindness
the frightened fleeing beings, the fledglings
of the strife, strafed by careless birds-of-prey;
an-eye-for-an-eye the whole world’s blindness.*
Enough, natural disasters bring such things:
Your pity lifts me, Weapon-of-the-Day.

© Helga Ross 07/24/2006

*Mahatma Ghandi