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The door was open
and she came in.
A litre can,
sealed at one end
she looked so nice.
Her words
were uttered now,
with sad
and downcast eyes.
'We need much money
to help the poor,
downtrodden,
not their fault,
the children die
they have no food
no water, only flies.'
There are so many,
millions really,
they hardly eat
but always breed
one wonders,
skies are black
they block the sun
but rest at night
and polish little wings.
She had some photos,
colour shots
of black on black
and scrawny dogs.
I showed her mine,
of gleaming guns
machetes and grenades,
of mobile phones
and German beer
and Playboy magazines.
Her quick reply
was that George Bush
was conquering
the world.
And wanted all
the black folks dead
for new democracy.
I pointed out that
little oil
was ever found
in jungles
and Condoleeza
was not white
that Rumsfeld would
have answers.
Elated thus,
she left my house
a new spring
in her step.
I didn't think
that Rumsfeld had
solutions
for, the dead
and dying Africans
and nor did I
but who would know,
perhaps the many flies?
And then it came
to me, at night
it's not for us to know
we cannot hope
to stop this plague.
But could they
help themselves?
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: money, food, sad, spring, house, children, water, hope, night, world, sun, dog, child, sky
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