A Handful Fist.

A Child is crawling
In a drought land,
A Child's Hand,
A handful fist,
Full of Sand.
A Childish Hope,
With starving look,
Waiting For Another
Red Cross Truck.

He walked alone,
In the farms,
Full of Dead Cows,
And Hungry Craws,
Flying over
Dry Corn Corps.

His Father was a tribe leader,
A high ladder
to climb,
But he declined,
In the dry Corn corps,
He was hanged.

Oh,His Mother,
What a beautiful existence she was
was the wish of every woman.
A beauty nobody could have woven,
A heart's never shaken,
A Civil War's arrow,
Gone through her thoughtful moment.
...A Dark Day,
...A Generation Decays.
...A Childhood passes away.
...Earth's Skin wrinkles like a dry clay.
...Under the hot summer Sun.

Step After Step,
Death climbs to the top
Of Every African Plan,
Of Every Woman's womb,
Gray Eyes, not a happiness,
But Just ran out of tears.
Golden Lands, not a Pharaoh tomb.
Just a thirsty Earth seeking Miracles...
Copyright@[x]
Influenced by [z]

Note: Written for Somalia's current political social status. A country, that should have never existed, Damn Nationalism. Without it, they would have been much better off than now.

Note: This is the poem#145.