The images scroll across the screen,
familiar now to conscience raised
in a caring world of 'better' ways.

Yet still the mother rocks ;
(cold comfort and more slowly now),
a young child to her breast ;
whose belly, empty of all hope
and dying still by slow degree,
looks out with melancholy eyes,
that watch and wait so patiently
and rip the very heart from me.

"Mmm, that reminds me," she trills,
such a busy, busy little bee
as she flicks the switch
then bustles on with eyes
that never ever really see -
"I must feed the birds,
the poor things will be
starved to death."