In this supposed great nation,
a place of wealth and power
acts of disgrace and immoral treatment
occur
upon my fellow man.
In a nation where clothes make the man,
we continue to allow man and child
to fall asleep on our streets
and search for offal and scraps in our waste.
We the healers I believe,
are the unfortunate souls who keep the pain
of the homeless and helpless in our souls.
We see the sadness and agony of disease
ravishing man's body merely for the fact
that he belongs to the caste of the untouchable.
Yet, I will place my hands upon you my friend,
I will attempt to heal your pain and treat your wounds
despite the raging infection licking its lips upon your legs.
I will expire the sanguine pustulence,
from the fluctuent masses,
I will tease the maggots from your wound
and wash your feet
long tired from miles without shoes.
We will house you from the bitter cold,
save your skin from the torment of the beating sun
and feed your empty heart
and satiate your bellowing bowels.
For it is the healers in this nation of gluttony and greed
who face the unending flood of forgotten souls
and dying minds who roam
these wealthy streets.
