Doomed? ? Poem by Cyclopseven R

The arid land
Marks the death.

Millions starve
For a morsel.

This land is not
A cornucopia of wealth.

People with swarthy skin
Coating their body with nothing.

Dead, but still alive
Their soul hanging
On loose thread.

Food comes in liquid
Flowing wheat is luxury.

Extending their arms
They cup the food in their palms

Crowded gathering
The fittest survives.

The day’s ordeal over,
At least for now.

Until the next roar
Of the old trucks
Is heard again
A deep scar
Slowly began to open.

They cry blood
That too, too dry to call blood.

Frantic cries
The daily music.

The wail of hungry children
Is like a machine gun
Gone wild.

The world sympathise
Alas! What sympathy holds?
When on the paper a signature absent
UN says no food delivery.

Wait for the signature to come by
Then UN shall sanction the delivery.

Can the hungry souls
Sign their stomach
To quench their thirst
And wipe the hunger?

Think, man
Oh! ! UN
Please pardon me
Give them food.

You go to hell
With the signature
And damned protocols.

Let the mark of death
Grow thin on this land
The arid land.

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