My beloved land in travail and groaning

 

My beloved land in travail and groaning.

My land desacralized and deeply hurt;

The soil is drunk with the peoples' blood,

By the occupiers' sacriligeous acts.

My land throbs in pain for her sons and daughters.

 

My beloved land bemoans her woes;

Plunderers and rapists parade her contours.

Heartless murderers contaminate her shrines;

Recklessly torch ancestral homesteads.

What did we do wrong, she ponders,

As old women and men roast in their slumber.

 

My beautiful land raped as a virgin shrieks;

No one is spared, everyone is an enemy.

She hollers and shouts but the World is silent.

Who shall save her from these molesters,

That execute without mercy men of God,

Messengers clad but in peace garments.

 

Not even the mad have where to hide;

Their blissful world with inhuman fury shattered.

Babies clung on mothers backs whine and fret;

Whole families seek relief in the wilds,

Still their cries are silenced by thunderous shots;

As the vulnerable each day succumb.

 

My gracious land contorts in deep pain.

Misery and despair descend like dark clouds.

What happened to the peace plants she ponders, as cruelty withers them.

The children seek nothing but justice;

Their rights to exist, to own rightfully that which is theirs.

Yet their melodies of supplication meet deaf ears,

Shattered by the roar of gunships.

 

This wounded land gathers her widows and orphans;

Their cry for justice grows even louder;

Though the powers that be shake their heads and look away;

Preaching justice from their convenient mahagonies.

The children moan but murmur freedom.

She yearns for Justice that births freedom.

Only freedom can heal and appease  her children.

 

A. King. 26.07.2018