Friday, February 26, 2010

My thoughts on paper: SOMALIA

Sand and seas dyed red.

Cover the horn were torment sheds.

Tears of blood to pain ones shed.

Shanty homes left were homeless fled.

Rocky roads made of skull and flesh.

Appeasement unsettling: so peace is unmet.

Morning dew is gun-smoke.

Fumes of burnt hope, as rare rain competes

against puddles formed from teary streets.

The weathers heat: sweat beads on foreheads of

shoeless feet; tank-tops on males with heightened speech

veils on females with no goals to reach.


Bright skies don’t mean that the sun does rise

It means sunrise many sons have died.

Even as the West buys the East’s pride;

I try to make sense, how do cents take lives?

Streams of blood seem to flow from both sides.

There’s a certain limit were the eye runs dry.

How does killing stop killing if they both take lives?

Wisdom in a lesson is seen by the wise.

Amidst writing in the skies, war planes fly-by.

Debris the outcome of the once high rise.

Seas of blood subside; welcoming the outcome of feuding tribes.

Hopeless, we scramble for the will to survive.


The futures defined by surviving the day.

No past to a present astray; a peasants-peasant is the minimal wage.

So how does a comfortable world question our criminal ways?

Born into days cold.

Laying-low from bullets until Watchers say, “Go!”

Mortar fires land on mud roads; as far as thugs go

There’s no room for courage once guns blow.

A mother’s hug is gold.

Father’s watch kids grow; only to witness their death

as soon as words flow.

One can never know, the torment of a soul

that witnessed, the vanishing of his family in whole.


With my seat here, I sit near- thoughts crystal clear,

of landmines, pistols and missile spears.

Building falling upon infants crawling on arms.

As leaders steal our rights like thieves in night;

Freedom fighters that fought to instill our rights

Meet a thing called ‘Power’, hence forget our plights.

Tears spill from the fear we feel in life.

The Sun in the skies only brings one light; another airstrike.

Another fair fight, rather unfair– like.

Don’t guerillas bear rights as armadillos bear spikes?

Vanilla aired nights with red beamed lights.

Drones with settlement villas in hindsight


Who shall we tell the tales that we fell through?

The well that we fell-in; with no rescue caravan or king.

Yet in the same day that AK’s spray.

Street kids play soccer and resume in ways- that,

only promote hope of a future day-which may

possibly be better than yesterday.

However, the weather blows

Summer breeze or leave-less trees, I know

that there will never grow a rose without one dying.

If one is to laugh, another must be crying. So, I’m eying

the joys of the Afterlife; are reserved for those, withering rose

in this life.


Sahra A Jess
Copyright © 2010

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