He fills, with pink, polluted dregs,
a yellow plastic can, and Lake Muhazi
fills again with water bleeding through
its pot-shot bullet holes.
With innocent disgust, ignores,
offshore, the bleached and, face-down,
bloated corpse that floats as lumber.
Five or six gun-rattling years of age,
he is spilling rivers from a perforated can,
dripping trails of pink, polluted dregs
along a path to where his parents sleep.
And Lake Muhazi weeps for him through
bullet holes, not able to revive a withered
lip or draw a tear from unblinking eyes.
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Comments about this poem (Rwanda 1994 by Brian Wake )
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