Liberian Sky

Harsh is the wind of Sahara, Serrated by grains of dusty sands, Stripping flesh from the bones of the dead, Kalishnikovs gripped in their skeleton hands. Child-soldiers trained as assassins, Magazines slotted in like building blocks, Smooth as silk, this gun never jams, It musically clicks as the catch unlocks. Itchy were the trigger fingers, Calloused from teasing the guarded steel, The psychopathy of poverty teaches Kill what you can, kid, that’s the deal. Dead lie the innocent children, Dead as the sprawl of the desert terrains, Conflict diamonds as payment Fired Washington bullets into their brains. Harsh is the land of corruption, And black the nocturnal Liberian sky, The blood in the moonlight drying Seems equally black in the white of the eye.