The Janjaweed

Darkness sweeps over once again, the sounds of thundering hooves approaching A little boy trembles with fear in a corner all so familiar, night after night. Lifting gently his head only slightly trying to hear the voices from above him. Their footsteps weigh heavily on the floor. His mother cries out! Sorrow consumes his broken heart, aching, he feels his mothers pain. What everlasting love she has for this boy. What lengths she will not go. If for not him that they wanted she would go in his place. He hides, as like every other night. Their husky voices feel the room. The blood he would spill from their necks if he was just a little older, just a little stronger! Helpless, he sits. He waits. Every ungracious movement above, every terse sentence uttered above results in screaming. They want that boy, Blood thirsty, ruthless mongrels only knowing war as a daily routine. Spilling blood in the streets for pavement of their new rule rounding up kids as a main target but killing all who get in the way, If only he was born somewhere else maybe he could have escaped their terror. Lord knows what's become of his mother, the morning will not keep any secrets, for he will see for himself. The men came on horseback, and left with far more than these people can spare. Villages torched to the ground leaving few survivors, maybe their leaders, their government can put a stop to this reign? Don't be naive, Nothing but silent responses will be responded to the pleas.