Ellen Hinsey

The Multitude

Standing at the edge is the great Multitude. 

They inch forward in their rags and hunger. 
Their movement along the ground lifts 
the sound of ancestral migrations. 

They are carrying the dark water of need 
in their eyes; they are carrying the first 
vowels, the first consonants, 

But their mouths are silent, and watchful. 

And the great scavenging wings hang over them; 
the raven eyes hunting among the muteness 
of the winding cortege. 

Beside them are the pools filled with the specters 
of famine, civil war, drought— 

They become one body, a muscle of need. 
A testament of want. 

And night—which is always upon them—rides them 
like the wild horses of the storm-filled plains. 

They will inherit the earth only when the final 
pilgrimage is done. 

For in this life, the crystal lake and the great sword 
of understanding, raised high, will not show 
them mercy. 

Far off, in the West, a light burns brightly. But 
it is not for them.