Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site



The irony of hard work


Submitted:Apr 3, 2007    Reads: 192    Comments: 6    Likes: 1   


Alien City

It's night

Streetlights burn amber

Rainfall relentlessly pelters

No traffic, no pedestrians

The city is dead.

The family clusters together

Conversing on the corridor -

Like ghosts in a nightmare -

A waiting the next dawn.

In the cold,

Children cry of hunger

Rainfall adding to their anger

The world in still slumber.

But we built this city

Built it with hearts desperate and pleading

Built it with arms broken,

Eyes blinded with tears,

Bellies rumbling with hunger,

Dry throats, cracking lips:

But we made it.

We built this famous city

United in a secret sense of mission

An unshakeable belief in the future

Of the delicate unborn lives

In our tired and worn out bones.

That when they will finally come to be

They will know we once lived

And left for them a refuge

A city to call their own.

But does it recognize them any more?

In grave destitution do they live

Victims of segregation, hatred,

Like we once were.

We built an alien city

A place to enslave our children.

John M. Wanjora.





1

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.