…And Ali squats by a cesspit, in the Gedo town
Somalia his mama, his abstract proper noun
“Mama! Would there be bread, today too?
But Red Cross off the air now, whose leavings shall we chew?”
“My heart begets no corn, no wheat, but lavish yields of gore
And the cost of bread is paid to them, with my fertile dreams galore
Who sell us guns and timeless wars too, and riot our souls
And in many halves they throw us bread, to make our measly wholes
The cost of bread is nothing more, than a drop of sweat on my land
But when it comes from Kansas, its toll is all the more grand
That blood-wheat and red bread it makes, we pay with our black skins
Behold my breasts bleed, when suckled by, the souls of our lasting sins
On their piece of bread, we fight our war, how humble is this pie?
Why war became our only truth, and life became a lie?
So wait my child for one more war, and you shall have your bread
And I shall moan my elegy, for my many more sons dead
© 2016 Vikas Chandra