The Oppressed
Where should I begin?
Will I make goose bumps emerge from your skin?
So hearken and ponder of a nation that’s been through thick n’ thin.
Her vast steppes move along the dusty winds direction.
Bloody stones and bones of all complexions.
Her silence captures words in your dry eyes.
Merely ignoring her faint cries.
Shrieks of little angels, women and men, wailing for help and freedom of oppression.
Childhood and innocence has been stolen.
The aged are hopeful but doubtful of what’s next to unfold.
The trembling sound of guns and bombs shout and ring through the tiniest ears.
Having a mother question, “Will my kid live another five years?”
So reflect and ask yourself, “Do I have a cup of clean pure water?”
As most might know the children of the oppressed have no drop, not even a quarter.
They strive to breath, to live, and to eat without being attack.
I pray only to God, they get their liberty and life back.
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