I look around,
And see broken bodies.
They litter dirt roads,
They fume in scorching heat.
Everywhere I go, the smell of them follows.
A sickening, rotting flesh, putrid smell.
It lingers throughout the remains of the village,
Haunting all who inhabit the ruble.
Dozens lay dead among the streets,
Men, women, children;
No particular gender nor race.
Just one community,
disheveled by its government;
Held together by its neighbors.
Today I see my assistant
Among the masses of new bodies.
My heart weeps at the sight of him.
Only partially clothed, his bones are easily seen.
He was a hard worker, a family man,
He had a lovely wife, and three children.
I shudder to think what became of them.
A few feet down I see a women drop to her knees,
Her arms on top of a dead mans chest.
Its hard to determine her age;
This man could be her brother, or father,
Or maybe even a son or husband,
Cut down in his prime.
I feel tears stream from my eyes as I watch her,
And think of the pain she must face.
But then again, isn't that what we all are facing?
Hunger, exhaustion, separation, death?
It was once that hope held this village together,
Before, that is, the army took over.
Before we found no aid would come.
Before we saw our loved ones killed beside us.
Before we knew we were next.
This is the typical village in Darfur,
The large population cut down to unbelievable numbers,
Where food is scarce, and often fought over.
Where finding a piece of bread is both a miracle and a nightmare,
You can be killed for that piece of bread, by both your neighbors and the army.
Sleep too rarely knocks on our door,
For fear that while we sleep, the army will attack.
It has happened before, and shall again.
We have no defense.
Countries all over the world see this,
And instead of helping, continue watching.
Only watching.
Some are at war in other places,
unnecessary wars I may add.
While others are in fear of helping,
Afraid for their own lives.
Who can blame them?
In order for us to fight,
We need the strength.
We need men who can stand,
And those men are few.
Most have been weakened to their knees with starvation.
Some with disease, some with grief, some with nothing but fear.
We have not an army to defend us,
To take back our village.
And so I stand here
In the middle of this street,
Smelling the rotting flesh,
Hearing the cries of suffering,
Seeing the grim reaper himself.
Has death come for my village?
Or will there be a miracle,
And help will finally come?
I can only hope to live so long.
Gold trophy winner
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