Saturday, November 27, 2010

South Sudan

My brush begins to paint a story
Bristling black, green and red gore,
Tents as far as the eye can see,
Blood as deep as red can bleed,
Bruises as deep as black can be,
The wind batters tents against burnt grass

An armored jeep prevents a pass,
A child cries, a mother dies,
Free at last, free at last
Free from hands so calloused they don’t heal,
Free from peace so brutal they can’t feel,
Bashir signs a treaty, and then violates the deal,
Makes a move for the land,
While the people weakened, can’t stand
Up to the homicidal maniac,
Employing child soldiers, cuts filled with crack-
Burning farms so there’s no back
To the food and water they lack

And legs so weak
They can’t stay on their feet.