THEY WERE FLIES


Sun’s light
Evening crimsom,
rays always red
Dark clouds above
Barely blue,
Darkness engulfing the land
Swallowing the last ray of light,
Of hope
leaving only thorny shrubs
Here always,

Sand bites underfoot,
Barely moved by the coming cold night
Day or night,
It’s the same
Maybe we should cross over
and head back

But back where?
I wish he could tell us
But he is too fragile to
even move his lips
The fly on his lower lip
Speaks for him
Its been there since sun was high
It could be dead, I hope it is
I don’t want this to be a another pencil stroke,
Like my brother
In Mr. Whites book

That evening,
He said to my brother,
We would go back ,
Yes, he said ‘kismayu’,
and play in the fileds,
dance with the stars
whisper in the moonlight
But the flies killed him
They never left his eyes, his lips
Mr white said it was kwashiorkor,
But, they were flies, I saw them.

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About Sabuni

A computer scientist by, profession. loves writing, listening to jazz, country and the oldies.
This entry was posted in All poems, Life, Memories, Poems Hive. Bookmark the permalink.

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