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The Children Are Dying (A Poem)

By Comrade Nour

the children are dying as we speak

their mothers are crying every week

what a bleak reality, what a

sad life to live unable to critique

or speak ill. not of the dead;

of those alive and willing to kill

the children’s blood, it spills

onto the concrete. as cold as 

the homes they can’t afford to heat

as somber as their emaciated faces 

their mothers waited

high hopes deflated, week by week

they call them uneducated 

isn’t that nauseating? 

i wish it was a case of learning to read

if every letter read 

was worth a grain of rice

would that suffice?

would they heat their homes?

how cold and sobering:

those hearts of stone.

if i could work myself to the bone

to feed these kids, i would tear down my

own home… to house these kids.

i would spread myself so thin

to add meat on their bones

it’s no way to live, a skeleton 

without a home.


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