hear the cries of your children.
a cruel streak across the sky,
shame etched in light.
The fat and powerful rejoice,
sheltered in mansions of concrete and V8's,
as the clouds roar with a fury that scars.
The old, the weak, the hungry, the sick—
they flinch beneath the sky’s terrible drum,
crackling rage unleashed mercilessly.
Lightning dances without pity;
floods rise, striking near orphaned souls
and animals, with nowhere left to run.
Wicked winds and waters lash the land,
tearing through huts and farms,
ripping trees into twisted mud.
There is no kindness in its path,
only the cold, unyielding resolution of force.
Wild winds howl,
rains pour like grief from heaven, storms thunder through a voiceless village— its hearts too exposed to bear the weight of the mother nature violence.
Children and elders, barefoot, forgotten,
stand knee-deep in muddy pools
at the gates of UNMISS camps,
as cruel laughter echoes,
blended with the scream of the storm—
a mockery of their misery.
Soaked and shivering, eyes full of loss,
they whisper:
"This is not the independence
they promised us."
O spirits of our ancestors,
hear the cries of your children.
Only to you we come—
only you can hold our tears
in the thunder’s wake.