Do not stare at me from your window, lady <br />do not stare and wonder where I came from <br />Born in this city was I, lady, <br />hearing the beetles at six o'clock <br /> <br />and the noisy cocks in the morning <br />when your hands rumple the bed sheet <br />and night is locked up the wardrobe. <br />My hands are full of lines <br /> <br />like your breast with veins, lady - <br />So do not stare and wonder where I came from <br />My hands are full of lines <br />like your breast with viens, lady - <br /> <br />and one must rear, while one must suckle life... <br />Do not stare at me from your window, lady. <br />Stare at the wagon of prisoners! <br />Stare at the hearse passing by your gate! <br /> <br />Stare at the slums in the south of the city! <br />Stare hard and reason, lady, where I came from <br />and where I go. <br />My hand is full of lines <br /> <br />like your breast with veins, lady, <br />and one must rear, while one must suckle life.<br /><br />Martin Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-stare-at-me/
