Those children starved and

expired – fused light bulbs

   in sepulchral sockets.

  Desiccate nakedness –

    their clothes fell off,

        Death bit in to them, their juices spilled, and their raisiny skins clung

      to their reedy frames. Their daddies dumped them with the others, where,

        cherubs sang requiems and yanked the jutting infant bones out through the flaky

                                                                       shells to cook a  broth.

  A sacred soup

         To be enjoyed by a

 petulant comedian

        who blesses the stew

     that nourishes his womb

And buoys his kronosian spirit.

   Ultimately, aren’t we all bone soup?

         Don’t we die to keep the ol’ lout living?

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After viewing some of Salgado's photos of the 1984 Sahel drought in Africa,  Jason Vaz, SJ wrote today's poem.