The Famished Faces
In the terrain of deplorable deprivation,
manifest in the war-torn land of wretched desertion,
the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass
struggle to rise from the debris of stony destiny.
The frail faces shape the artifacts of spiteful fate,
flicker with the fading smile of the residual innocence,
borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun,
already sunk in the desolate depth of smoky horizon.
The tender little hands have no toys to play,
feeble fingers draw the crude faces of dolls
on the broken soil of devastation, dry as bone.
The famine designed by human maneuver forces
the hungry children to fight for a foothold in the crowd.
Their famished dusty faces don’t know
how the dance of the summer rains feels,
for these are flooded by the torrent of tear.
The children when they should be blooming like flowers,
wander away displaced from home to nowhere,
driven by the harsh squall of the bomb blasts,
ripping the juvenile liveliness into ruins.
In the milieu of freedom under the unbound sky
the infantile flowers devoid of pristine patina
no longer blossom in the puerile gardens
of the land once vibrant where the children bloomed.
Tarnished by the muck of our malevolent times,
their deranged dreams die premature in the ravaged land.
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