Indifference by Ihlwha Choi

INDIFFERENCE 

At the stairs leading down to the underground shopping arcade in Sinpo-dong, Incheon,
a child lies prostrate, begging,
his palms black as soot.
Holding out a small bowl,
he crouches low, his forehead almost touching the ground,
pleading for alms.
Three or four coins lie in the bowl.

Does that boy want coins,
or is it human kindness he longs for?

I hurry past, stirring up a cold wind.
Even the kindhearted old women pass, pretending not to see.
Priests and pastors, too, pass by,
looking without really seeing.

The war orphans,
their tear-streaked faces still vivid in memory,
must all have grown up by now.
But where do these children come from,
day after day,
begging amid the countless feet that kick them aside,
their little bodies soaked in grime and tears?

Have their hopelessly wretched parents fallen ill?
Have they run off with someone, leaving the child behind?

Even on my way back, my errand done,
the boy is still there,
curled up like a hedgehog,
repeating the same pitiful gesture.

He must have a story of his own...

In this world,
so slick and worn smooth with use,
the boy has lost all credibility;
no one will listen to his plea.

The bitter early-winter winds
weep into the subway entrance,
striking only the neck of an innocent child,
freezing only the soft lobes of his ears.