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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Opinion · #1278713
The plight of the poor in most developing countries with resources abounding.

Scrawny legs , emaciated form gazing
Into nothingness,.. buzzing flies.
Matchstick skeletal motion to
Nowhere in hopeless pursuit.

Explosions inside the mind of
A hungry child hanging on to
Pancake breast suckled dry.
Arid land where only flies feast.

This.. my continent and people
These..my brothers and children.
This .. the land of my fathers
Flowing with humus, milk and honey.

In the distance, I hear drums
Ululations...the flow of happiness
Insults my immediate sight
For a child lies with open mouth.

I hear laughter.. the slapping of bellies..
Fireworks ...this is an illusion
A mother clutches bones of her son
Soon the river of milk will flow.

A gurgling cry of the dry brook..
All arise to drink from the river
Alas.. it is but a mirage...
There is but a wetness of sand.

Where does reality start and end?
The sky sings blues and our hearts
Are grey from waiting upon
The promised rain for our ballot.

I was but a child and looked yonder
I grew up and now I wonder if
My progeny will get the river's
Cream or starve amid the gems.

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