STICK CHILDREN OF AFRICA
Staring
at the bloody sun fall from grace to madness,
My
empty eyes stare past the past to a time before the sadness.
The
glory gone, all noble days now filled with desperate hollow,
These
husks of men, these cow-dumb forms find their pain again tomorrow.
And
their checks are drawn upon our souls, now bankrupt and foreclosed,
Their
feral and frightened gaze, fly-blown eyes remain unclosed.
Blood
hot genetic memory, an imperative of sorts,
They
hold their stick children within their arms—a living child corpse.
And
how am I and how can I remain here days to follow,
When
the stick children of Africa will all be dead tomorrow?
It’s
Africa,
the men declare, too big, too strange, unknown,
No
one knows nor cares a bit of it, how the seeds of hell are sewn.
And
the problems of this strange dark land beyond what we can stand,
And
so all that is left for us to do is let it bleed out in the sand.
Make
much about our cares and hope, make photo ops abound,
But
at the end of every day let it die without a sound.
Camps
of death and pits of hell hold no living force,
Despite
they walk across the sand--in their arms a living corpse.
And
how am I and how can I remain here days to follow,
When
the stick children of Africa will all be dead tomorrow?
The
medicine is long since out, though they all still stand in line,
As
wind blown men who were once sane know this world is out of time.
Once
so bold, so noble then--skills, hope and iron will,
We
did
not know the size of it, a pit too deep to fill.
Now,
every night of every day to our tents we do retire,
To
the bottles of Jack and gin, and sit slack jawed by the fire.
And
how did it all come to this, giving treatment to the dead?
You’re
in hell on earth
the moon does say, where the beast is always fed.
And
how am I and how can I remain here days to follow,
When the stick children of Africa will all be dead tomorrow?
*******