From the Comfort Of our Western Homes, We gorge Ourselves Upon Cheesecakes And pies; Sipping Our lattes On a Sunday Afternoon.
As plumes Of smoke Billow From the Burning Lands, The Churning Lands.
Columns Of smoke Rising Towards The Marbled Sky,like Some Ancient Pillaged And Abandoned Temple Wreathed In ivy.
As the Janjaweed, And the Mujahideen Plunder and Pillage their Brothers' Lands;the Dry and Empty Lands.
Driving The Crying Women And Children Into the Sea.
On Leaky Creaky Boats; Traveling To foreign Shores; To detention Camps or Behind Cold Bars.
In Rags, The Melancholy Child clings To the wire Fence with Teardrops Trickling Down his Cheeks; Wondering At the Frowning And hate Filled faces, Instead of Playing with Children in The sand.
Are we So different You and I, That you Should be Burdened So?