Thursday, March 10, 2016

A postcard to 1967

For long they wept by the river,
waiting for boats to bridge their hunger,
making clay lamps from the river bed,
soaking the wicks with their blood.
they sent signals to the island of hope
The night only got darker,
but neither the postcards came,
nor the boats returned to the shore.

They ploughed the lands 
with hands and fingers,
dragged their feet for food,
but hunger is an insatiable beast,
and soon this incurable plague stared at their face.

So one day they rose in despair,
and fight for their crops before they fall,
bullets rained under a laden sky,
across a crimson land, their bodies roll.
A rage had taken over them that day,
And it still fuels their fight,
decades after decades, swept like leaves,
but there is still no end to their plight.

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