Everyday,
there is a feast
in temples, churches
or mosques,
everyday
there is a feast
in hotels, resorts,
or homes, everyday,
there are crumbs
to toss at
streetkids, everyday,
there are
starvation deaths.

Little islands
of curries
form an arena
of extravaganza
on a palette
of plantain leaf
dumped in overfed
stomachs from
cradle to grave.

Everyday,
we waste food,
in our dustbins,
the odour of
rotting food
filling bellies
of animals,
everyday,
our feasts
and its wastes
trample upon
hungry souls
resting in their
living graves.

Everyday,
there is a feast,
but where
is our conscience?
Graves.