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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Rwanda 1994 by Brian Wake )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- GAZA غزة, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- whats the point?, binod bastola
- If You Should Read This Poem, David Munene wa Kimberly
- Holy! Holy!, Naveed Khalid
- My Mother, Tony Adah
- Mutability, Naveed Khalid
- May Evening: Portrush East Strand, bryan wallace
- Girl In A Garden, Leslie Philibert
- Black and white!, SALINI NAIR
- Silverware, Trent Clark