The Child in us
Outside I see life hurdle past at a speed
leaves vapour trails behind and as I eat my soup, a child
in Rohingya dies of malnutrition.
It is morning after the party, and I try to feel guilty about
the food we ate and cannot, and now as I write a child
in Yemen died of a shrapnel wound to its stomach.
What a sin we commit not given an infant a chance
to live a life of peace, but this, not the full story we in
Europe is quick with the scalpel taking life before it is
born and we feel no guilt, just another lost day at
the clinic of death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem