Djibouti, Djibouti
shake that booty.
grab that looty
Somalian pirate.
Djibouti, Djibouti.
another Somalian
washed up on shore
for sure their Somalian
I can tell because they said so.
Djibouti, Djibouti.
This, is a crafting table
-MartincitoPants
Where do I start?
Could I brief about its abundant gold?
Or the amazing traditions so old
Of storytelling and poetry so strong and bold
Can I talk a little about its coastline?
That stretches as far as the Indian ocean
Or about its serene and beautiful people
Of poetic voices and amazing storytelling skills
I bet this you want to know not
For your thoughts are fixed to the odd
Of how it has been ravaged by destruction
One I'm certain came with instruction.
It will amaze you
How still strong a rickety tradition stands;
How beautiful its plateau sites are
And how strong the bond families still share.
Somalia is made of greatness
If not only for western politics.
No blood would ooze out if cut by blade
No flesh below to sink, nothing inside shakes
Bare bones protruding here and there like spikes
Vacant look in the eyes
Yet the body breathes and survives;
Skeleton like children of Somalia, one of the African tribes.
Somalia carries the most pathetic tableau in the world stage;
Three fourth of its children below two are anaemic
And large numbers are stunted below five years in age
Yet, each mother can’t resist giving birth to six, seven children though sick!
High temperature, polluted water, inadequate housing and sanitation
Poor infrastructure added to their plight makes the poor Africans
Chased by the changed climate and the natural calamities
Fighting among themselves, vulnerable to many a tropical disease
Some of them are obese too who wait for more ways to suffer;
Poor healthcare system compelling them to incur
Huge out of pocket expenses pushing millions of Africans
To the path of poverty and indignity, mostly among the Nigerians;
Paucity of doctors and health centres add salt to their wounds
As some age old dreadful superstitions surround.
Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2018
i want to write a book,
with the words the wise never understood.
with the intention to safe my neighborhood.
i know this is a strange route,
which is full of hooks.
but let me bear the pain,
because,big is what am about to gain.
please, am not for fame,
but bringing peace is my aim.
lets talk for the voiceless,
and give shade to the homeless,
we were once a united nation,
but west came with federation.
a symbol of separation,
that leads to partition
killings in addition.
This is neo-colonization
if only you could judge my observation.
Kenya stole our wealthy seas,
in our own regions they call us refugees.
.................
I met a talking moon
on the road of death.
What easily comes, goes easily with winds.
I was counting the ribs of
my dying child. He went into the
woods to fight the unknown wars
of hunger.
Bunker:it went into flames
sailing into brilliance of space.
I am going to inherit the black grains
of molten day. How I will confront
the night tainted with bonfires
of sunken eyes ?
God particles in tiny fists spreading
the spun cotton, intitating a
revolution of thoughts. A bumpy
argument. The icon denies the guilt
of mass killing. I want
to remain unsung.
Satish Verma
The stick-like drying bones of my little children
Haunt the tom-tom pulse of my heart.
Their electric bulb-like eyes drawn out by starvation's brethren
Mock our nation badly torn apart
By hunger endorsed by pitiless drought
As hope melts in lightning speed, death record boards increase.
Why are we let to perish in this hell sprout
As rain's fury accelerates in degrees?
These silently emitting screams of my dying kids
Slowly kill me before my awaiting death.
Can I hold on with these lashes of starvation’s sticks
As prostration gently lures me to earth?
These well nourished vultures above my thatch,
Posing with pride like kings in regalia
Hopefully await my remains as they perch.
I am a dying man in Somalia.
25/07/2011
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