Run Aways Poem by ASIIMWE SIMON ROLANDS

They sit in groups of threes,
All lost in their rags.
Besides them, are tins,
And others are old bags.
Inside them, petrol and glue!
And other strong-dangerous drugs.

They walk in groups of threes;
Some in their early tens,
All lost in their rags,
Some on their on their bodies, are bruise.
And many call them thugs,
But for I call them friends.
Because they weren’t born thugs,
Because they weren’t made to die thugs,
There is a hope of change inside the rags.

They sit in groups of threes;
And all they discuss are the tricks,
Of huntin’ somethin’ to swallow,
And they see not yesterday or tomorrow,
For they count days as they pass,
They don’t have time to think of tomorrow.
They live that way and they grow,
And them too are people of tomorrow.
Because them too, in their hands are seeds to sow.