Walking down the streets of cities,
And working in the fields upcountry.
Her love so genuinely given unto her children
You can tell, by the sight of her wounds; on her face and body
Not self-afflicted; but greasily caused by her children.
Scars not of birth, but fights
Between her greedy yet already satisfied children.
One wound; so major and fresh. It refuses to dry and heal
Don’t you get her? She mourns at sun rise and set,
That the only time her wounds don’t pain
Are those when her own children are in pain.
She stares at the hurting irony of her life.
They unite in their pain, just as they do in fighting her
It breaks her heart. Although she fights to survive
As she, only she is the source of their livelihood. So selfless!
Yet the wounds, well, they don’t care. She hopes for recovery.
She is now vulnerable, thinking twice on giving up.
The children label her gullible; so piercing her mind.
Who can become my white cells? She asks
To defend me from my own system
As to boost my moral immune.
For my children, they learnt not about first aid.
And I dread, my wound might break
Giving way to endless bleeding. Terrifying the already terrified.
Who will be the red cell soldier for our mother?
To fight these merciless greedy foreign bodies
Encroaching the best of our mother, meant for her generations
I weep not for myself. But for her wounds.
I stand to be her platelets, to prevent any more damage
No more bleeding shall I stand from her. I’ll cover her.
And hope that the wound dries up. And recover gracefully.
Time it will take, I only hope she heals. And say goodbye
To her silent screams.
Her screams of wounds pressed on each day
Wounds of corruption and poverty
In our motherland Kenya!
We say no to these wounds.
Let them heal!
And let the scars remind us of the journey
Never to be back again.
God bless and protect our motherland, Kenya!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem