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On quiet days in mid autumn 
When sun and clouds play ‘peek-a-boo’ 
Somber thoughts linger in crisp air
Of some other time and place where 
Harmattan winds in December create 
A hazy fog of dust and sand  
Draping the sun from dawn to dusk

I hear sounds of children’s laughter 
Singing ‘Ring around the Roses’ 
Playing ‘Na fo’ and ‘jumping rope’
No one took note the birds were silent
No one had seen them fly away
No one recognized the warning
Soon horror and mayhem would ensue

Little brown feet tender, yet fast
Pound the earth skipping, jumping
Lean and strong; weaving in and out
Through serpentine reeds of brown and green 
Dust clouds rise, burst with each tap
Happy voices chanting a local jingle
‘Who bucks it takes it... free rope”

On quiet days in mid autumn
When leaves of Oaks and Elms
Brown, red, yellow, gold and rust 
Carpet concrete sidewalks   
Rustle loudly beneath my feet 
I still hear eerie sounds of wailing 
Of children’s terrifying screams

In some other time and place where  
Harmattan winds creep south 
Like an iniquitous invading force
Bringing in chill and fog of powdery sand  
Then sudden sounds of terror assault the ears 
Trembling in shock powerless to move
Little brown feet melt with nowhere to run 

They huddle behind walls of mud bricks 
Others dash towards the woods 
Leaving broken flip flops and tennis shoes
Scattered on fields of dust 
Through thickets, shrubs and razor grass
Little brown feet bare running scared
Now bruised and bleeding unaware

Hades’ orchestra plays its symphony 
Emitting a cacophony of sounds
Mortars falling! Red-tail rockets sailing!
RPGs rip and the AKs unrelenting rat-ta-ta-ta….
While Harmattan winds like a steam engine blows 
Long hard fierce and cold 
Little brown feet will skip no more



A tribute to the Children of Liberia (Liberian Civil War - December 1989-2004)
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