THEY WERE FLIES

Sun’s light

Evening crimsom,

 rays always red

Dark clouds above

Barely blue,

Darkness engulfing the land

Swallowing the last ray of light,

Of hope

 leaving only thorny  shrubs

Here always,

Sand bites underfoot,

Barely moved by the coming cold night

Day or night,

It’s the same

Maybe we should cross over

 and head back

But back where?

I wish he could tell us

But he is too fragile to

even move his lips

The fly on his lower lip

Speaks for him

Its been there since sun was high

It could be dead, I hope it is

I don’t want this to be a another pencil stroke,

Like my brother

In Mr. Whites book

That evening,

He said to my brother,

We would go back ,

Yes, he said ‘kismayu’,

and play in the fileds,

dance with the stars

whisper in the moonlight

But the flies killed him

They never left his eyes, his lips

Mr white said it was kwashiorkor,

But, they were flies, I saw them.

Sabuni.