What hands will
One day touch these pages Stack it in
attics Sell it to men
Who callout
Patiently in noon day heat For paltry
coins willingly part
with children of my heart These, so
long hidden From t he world
Go out, orphans, to
Street corners, markets,
Other homes, wrapped
Crumpled, tinged with mould
Burnt, or buried, in
Backyards of alien homes
This, and not my flesh
will be the final death.