The stick-like drying bones of my little children
Haunt the tom-tom pulse of my heart.
Their electric bulb-like eyes drawn out by starvation's brethren
Mock our nation badly torn apart
By hunger endorsed by pitiless drought
As hope melts in lightning speed, death record boards increase.
Why are we let to perish in this hell sprout
As rain's fury accelerates in degrees?
These silently emitting screams of my dying kids
Slowly kill me before my awaiting death.
Can I hold on with these lashes of starvation’s sticks
As prostration gently lures me to earth?
These well nourished vultures above my thatch,
Posing with pride like kings in regalia
Hopefully await my remains as they perch.
I am a dying man in Somalia.