Behold there, a Somalian child is standing upon dry hard rocks. <br />Its two eyes glitter like a rough diamond, parched, bleak and dark. <br />Its belly exhibits the fragile bony ribs and silently mocks <br />The phony Art that seeks phony beauty even in wounded scar-mark. <br /> <br />The orphan boy was trying to scream but no voice came out <br />From its barren vocal cord, empty stomach and shrinking lung. <br />Its salty tears have dried out too like parched petals of a dead sprout. <br />Its face looked blue and pale as if it were serpent-stung. <br /> <br />This child, like all newborns here, was born with a constant Curse <br />Of utmost struggling life until it moves, stares, breathes no more. <br />Even showers upon the drought-infested land cannot reimburse <br />The untold tales of such millions of children, the Pain-store. <br /> <br />Two immobile figures of dead parents laid on dusty ground <br />And blurred cries of the child melted in heat of wind there. <br />No humans were there to hear except vultures that hovered around <br />The dead bodies and waited until death of the tiny figure.<br /><br />Osman Gani<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-somalian-child/
