http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1400076587/002-5283918-5340033?v=glance
No Madonna and Child could touch Her tenderness for a son She soon would have to forget.... The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea, Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps Behind blown empty bellies, Other mothers there Had long ceased to care, but not this one: She held a ghost-smile between her teeth, And in her eyes the memory Of a mother's pride....She had bathed him And rubbed him down with bare palms. She took from their bundle of possessions A broken comb and combed The rust-colored hair left on his skull And then--humming in her eyes--began to part it. In their former life this was perhaps A little daily act of no consequence Before his breakfast and school; now she did it Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.
A Mother in a Refugee Camp -- Chinua Achebe