A Somali Child

Behold there, a Somali child is standing on dry scorching rocks. Its two eyes glitter like a rough diamond, parched, bleak and dark. Its shrunken belly exhibits the fragile bony ribs and silently mocks The phony Art that seeks artistic beauty even in such 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 dried out like parched petals of a dead sprout. Its face looked so 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 dry hearts of millions of such Somali children, the Pain-store. Two immobile figures of parents are half-buried on dusty ground And the mumbling cries of the child melted in heat of wind there. No humans there to hear except the vultures that hovered around The fresh dead bodies and waited until fall of another tiny figure.