Street Death

I heard a mother weep again; her son lay dying in the street. And does it matter how he died, or who it was that held the gun? Injustice wears too many cloaks, in colors of the brutal street. In black, or white, or blue, or red, a bullet is invisible. The mother weeps for justice sake, beyond her pain and utter grief. And humankind must own the blame, for her son is the same as mine. For her son is the same as yours. He never had much of a chance. The fault of inequality, to thus deny a man his dream, diminishes all of us with shame. To fail to feel this mother's pain, denies our only chance to heal. To fail to act to end the death, condemns us to a hopeless world.