For the last handful of rice
Krishna searched in the plantain leaf
That lay dead
As the amputated yellow tongue of hunger.
The oil lamp in front
Shone as his insufficient knowledge
And his huge shadow swayed on the muddy wall
As the spirit of someone passed away by starvation.
There on the leaf appeared scenes
Of the Dark Continent
Though he was ignorant of the country and its people.
Skeletons attired in wrinkled skin
And mothers with dried up breasts and scaly teats
The result of wars in which kings always win
And subjects lose on either side.
His hands trembled
And the ball of rice fell down.
By a wind.
The lamp blew out
And he sighed in comfort.