Poor People Food
We are what we eat—
yet the bread on our tables
has turned to ash in the mouth.
Once, the poor were the healthiest of us all,
nourished by fields that knew no poison,
fed by rivers that flowed without a price.
The earth gave freely,
and our bodies sang with light.
But then came the merchants—
Western capitalism draped in silver lies,
turning soil to factory,
turning harvest to chemical,
turning hunger into profit.
Food is no longer grown to heal us—
it is engineered to bind us,
to keep us shivering in low vibrations,
trapped in the invisible chains of fear.
The Catholic priest once whispered to me,
“If the land where you live
cannot feed you,
then it is not worth the breath of staying.”
Yet here we stand—
on land that no longer feeds us,
our gardens stolen,
our seeds patented,
our hands empty.
They tell us to buy what we once grew,
water now comes in plastic,
and freedom comes with a barcode.
Even the saints of greed wear the mask of heroes—
Bill Gates calls himself the savior of the poor,
while feeding the world
with the slow poison of his science.
Hear me—
your days are numbered.
Humanity stirs in its sleep,
and we will reclaim
the right to plant, to drink, to eat, to live.
Food is thought,
food is spirit,
food is the first medicine—
and you have turned it
into a weapon
to rot the mind,
to weaken the heart,
to enslave the soul.
Healthy food now sits on high shelves,
priced like gold,
while the masses break bread with the devil,
unknowingly.
Tell me—
is this the hand of man,
or the breath of the devil himself?
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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