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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this poem was so visceral and honest…it’s a reality so many of us face.