Poetry

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The Passing Stranger

by Wes Hunt
The two walked slowly, brooding
heads bowed, shoulders bent,
as if looking for lost hope
code-written in the sand.
They spoke not a word. Why speak?
The only world they knew collapsed
in bitter shame and grief but days ago.
Ignoring a passing stranger they
marched grimly on to nowhere;
Oblivious to everything except
their fierce-felt pain.
How could they know the robe-clad
stranger they had scarcely seen,
had walked on stars, designed the
Milky Way and manufactured every
tiny grain of sand on which
they walked that day.

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