Third World Voice
Their voices cry out in hollow despair like the wind of a subtle storm of dust that vanishes in the air.
It rests like pollen on morning dew noticed only by a compassionate few.
Fragile like the petals of wilting wild flowers their survival is married with torrid powers.
Polity, vision, and youthful passion are blunted with blood in an evil fashion.
Those who see with shadowy eyes the injustice of all the treasure that dies
Are blessed with empty hearts and salient deafness to their haunting cries.
The abundance of Mother Earth has disbursed guilt upon our hands
As we rest in peaceful platitude with green across our lands.
How soon will our backs carry the song of their disdain?
Will we wait until our hands are covered with a horrible stain?