I’m thinking about children
who die at birth;
Children who never grow
to become parents.
I’m thinking about children
whose names I will never learn
to pronounce;
children who learn to sing
a dirge at dawn.
I’m thinking about abandoned children;
children whose words are chaste, holy
like a temple, like an altar;
children who do not know why
they see blood on the streets.
I’m thinking about the images
of children that clump my head:
their postures, their laughter,
their bodies buried like wastes
in those wooden coffins.
I’m thinking about children who
die in the bomb blasts; children
who will never pray for this country.
(This beautiful poem was written by my good friend Rasaq Malik Gbolahan- a fine poet and writer. I first came across it here: http://heartjournalonline.com/rasaq/2014/12/30/two-poems-by-rasaq-gbolahan)
