Their dying fire in need of logs
one woman held hers back
for on the faces around the fire
she saw that one was black.

The next one looking across the way
saw one not of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give
the first his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes
and gave his coat a hitch.
"Why should my log be used
to aid the filthy rich?"

The rich man just sat back and thought
of the wealth he had in store
and how to keep what he had earned
from the lazy, shiftless poor.

The Black man's face bespoke revenge
as the fire passed from his sight
for all he saw in his stick of wood
was a chance to spite the white.

The last man in this forlorn group
did not give except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave
was how he played the game.

Six logs held tight in death's still hands
was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.

-Author Unknown