Harvest
My neighbor’s little child,
whose ear was made of stone
and feet as swift as deer
toward mischief.
This child, whose heart
was a clay shield
no bomb of morals could penetrate.
Many words of goodwill spoken
fell behind those cold walls.
His tongue, a sharpened blade
that tore the hearts of the brave;
a mouth that dared
to preach what’s right.
This child now sits in confinement,
pondering the cost of not listening
a payment made in the cyclic return
of all the lessons skipped.
I am that child,
whose journey ended before it began
a neighbor to my own parents,
alone and forgotten.
The harvest of all I have sown.
Copyright © Hellen Nuhu | Year Posted 2025
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