Behold there, a Somalian child is standing upon dry hard rocks.
Its two eyes glitter like a rough diamond, parched, bleak and dark.
Its belly exhibits the fragile bony ribs and silently mocks
The phony Art that seeks phony beauty even in wounded scar-mark.
The orphan boy was trying to scream but no voice came out
From its barren vocal cord, empty stomach and shrinking lung.
Its salty tears have dried out too like parched petals of a dead sprout.
Its face looked blue and pale as if it were serpent-stung.
This child, like all newborns here, was born with a constant Curse
Of utmost struggling life until it moves, stares, breathes no more.
Even showers upon the drought-infested land cannot reimburse
The untold tales of such millions of children, the Pain-store.
Two immobile figures of dead parents laid on dusty ground
And blurred cries of the child melted in heat of wind there.
No humans were there to hear except vultures that hovered around
The dead bodies and waited until death of the tiny figure.