Bella

By the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, she sees the poor, they cross Catherine Street, need in their eyes, linen unclean, the soul of lost hordes, someone asks why, they slouch as they walk, who needs pity, when pity is sly, dances at the beggar's party, all of them caught, there'll be no inquiry, when truth is sought, perish the guilty, each part of their lives, is fractured then buried, makes a perfect nought, a crime to identify, the troubled and lost, between moon and sky ?