By Mory Keita
I write for the voiceless in NYC’s subways,
Strapped in misery in the big apple,
City of dreams and universal wonders,
They walk their walks like ghosts in bliss,
They pass train by train begging,
Begging for understanding and subsistence,
Telling their lives chronicles to the stranger,
But they are unheard for their lives do not matter.
What has their dreams become?
They too sing songs of America like immigrants,
And dream of better future and opportunity.
Why don’t we bail them out?
Why don’t we let them prove their worth?
I write for the unheard children in Darfur?
Those the world snub like out-casts.
They seek peace and love but are crushed like insects,
They walk their walks like ghost in the inferno.
Is humanity blind to their sufferings?
Or has mankind lost its “humanity”?
Written for the inferno challenge: blind
Written for the inferno challenge: blind
Posts
