Made Famine
I sit watching the news
with tea in hand.
Surplus food. And I despair.
Man-made hunger: ribs like xylophones, crushed.
Reaching for food, they are fed bullets.
A child, just looking for bread.
Warnings that neither warn nor miss.
A kilo of flour costs a life.
Doctors die—from hunger, or from trying to feed it.
Humanity: misplaced.
This is what grief has carved into the world.
Overcrowded. Airless. No refuge.
Aid centres that don’t aid.
The dead don’t get labelled.
Food rots at the border while the world watches.
Months of meals sit still.
A ceasefire whispers.
A spine: a skeleton curled like a fetus.
Mother made family made famine.
Hate is inherited, spoon-fed to children with dust and grief.
And I sip my tea.
It tastes like shame.
But hunger is louder—
and one voice raised
might ignite others.
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