The pity is when he, who passes, tries
To put the darkness in another's eyes
And calls it loving, even though he knows
This stranger less, in passing, than the crows;

And men and crows in windows here can tell
A guilty glance is only hollow shell
And must, like monsoon mussing up my hair,
Be gone and leave him sitting in his chair;

But does his non-condemning me and rain
Absolve the awful hunger and the pain
Of children, or their mothers standing by
To touch the tourist deeper than the eye;
And can these glimpses now  be nothing more
Than photos to be taken home to store?