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Emmanuel Kane Poem
I glimpse a boy sitting on a chair alone,
his feet are hanging down,
his patched face blackened by smoke.
He is unable to cry,
unsure where his family may be,
he scoops clots of fresh blood from his wet Berber hair,
wipes it on his lap.
His eyes nervously follow the camera lenses
He waits.
Once more,
these people begging for peace tell me
some twenty years ago
a bushy man declared war on his people,
dispersing their seeds all around the world.
Some germinate here where
people speak of peace daily,
and lawyers turned politicians quarrel daily about free speech,
and caramel skinned men get shot dead daily,
and courts rule in police favor daily.
It is the law of the freest world, I should be saying.
Copyright © Emmanuel Kane | Year Posted 2017
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