An Oriental
Tapestry
The Blood-Soaked Handkerchief
I passed
by the blood-soaked handkerchief
for the
umpteenth time.
It was
still lying there on the side-walk,
still
surrounded by a myriad of
tiny
blood
drops,
now
blackening.
No one has
bothered to pick it up yet.
The garbage collectors in my country
don’t
usually pay much attention
to
such
small
details.
The
handkerchief
must have
belonged to one of the
beggar
boys
in the
area.
That was
their corner anyway.
That was
where they usually
stood,
begged,
and,
sometimes,
fought.
I
haven’t seen any of them
for a
while.
In fact,
I haven't
seen any of them
eversince
the blood-soaked handkerchief
made its
appearance
on
the
scene.
The
handkerchief was slowly rotten away,
I have
noticed.
And the blood drops surrounding it
all
continuing
to
blacken.
There
are many blackened drops
all
over
the
side-
walks
of my
country.
I used to think of them as drops
of
ordinary
filth,
or
asphalt.
But now I
wonder,
I really do
wonder
if we are
not blackening
our
side-
walks
with the
blood
of our
derelict
children.
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