The Room

Sitting in this well-furnished room
Teeming with books, art, toys I do not use
Trinkets from places I’ve gone where others met their doom
Piles of papers, years of school’s refuse
I wonder what gives me the right
To live in such a place as this.
When I was abroad I saw a sight
Of mud-brick houses I now miss:
Dingy and damp, yet full of light
They stood by the village, battered
No running water, no power
Many with dreams so shattered
But each as bright as a flower.
Made of mud, so humble they were
Yet from each grew roses, splashes of color
And from each one it was always sure
Each of their hearts were much, much fuller
Of treasures than this well-furnished room.
They loved people where we love things;
And, for this life that is so short before its doom
I think their life happiness truly brings.