You who know no fear
of tomorrows filled with nothing
but a belly full of hunger,
The crumbs you scatter for the birds
never fall upon our tables.
Your platters filled with meats
in sauces made with wine
to tempt your pallet are unknown
to we who dine on dust.
Your tender, hope-filled words,
like peace branches brought by
carrier pigeons, we would sooner
eat than read the tiny scrolls
tied to their slender limbs.
We have a right to live.
We, too, have our dignity.
Do not think to hide cupidity for
our resources behind sweet statistics
devoid of all humanity.
The nudity of your purposes is poorly veiled,
disguised under promises of aide.
It is time to strike, for hunger strikes!
Our guts make their presence known
in a twisting agony of screaming need.
Can you not hear the dirge of nations
all but lost to this soul snatcher
called by terms now as benign as famine?
© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent 15.02.2010