Many people in Goan villages have this habit of getting up in the morning and going out with a little bag to collect fallen mangoes and other fruit; flowers for the temple; and whatever else the night might have left behing.
I too on my morning walk keep my eyes open for any odd thing. Today on my passoi which took me to Ucassaim, I saw a piece of paper on the ground with a picture on it. It was a page with a picture of a boy and a poem about this boy by Peter Fischl. At home I googled for this poem and you can see it in the link below. The poem is didactic but also quite interesting http://isurvived.org/SmallBoyCaptured.html *I.* I would like to be an artist So I could make a Painting of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would make a monument of you and the world who said nothing I would like to be a composer so I could write a concerto of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would write a concerto of you and the world who said nothing . *II.* I am not an artist But my mind had painted a painting of you Ten Million Miles High is the Painting so the whole universe can see you Now Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the World who said nothing I'll make this painting so bright that it will blind the eyes of the world who saw nothing Ten billion miles high will be the monument so the whole universe can remember of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat . *III.* Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the monument will tremble so the blind world Now will know What fear is in the darkness The world Who said nothing I am not a composer but I will write a composition for five trillion trumpets so it will blast the ear drums of this world The world's Who heard nothing I am Sorry that It was you and Not me
