Little Brown Feet
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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