Crying Child

By Daniel Mwale

 

She has been crying for centuries,
Since the fright of ages begun,
Her echoes reached to many countries,
But never resorted to a gun.

She lives in a tiny house,
Windowless and dark inside,
Human feaces and cobwebs hanging loose,
But sparkling with beauty outside.

She cries uncontrollably,
Sending her tears abroad,
Crossing the south and north sea probably,
For friends in need are friends indeed.

They crawled in still the child cries,
Humanitarian aid is indeed agency,
Billions of dollars to avert crisis,
Leaving a smiling face with intimacy.

She goes into the shop for chocolate and yogurt,
To herself said eat and enjoy merrily,
Doing it with passion like the work of art,
Forgetting yesteryears misery.

Her friends abroad wondered,
Why she remains on the same status quo,
Why her house still dirty inside?
Despite their humanitarian call.

She has been crying for centuries,
Since the fright of ages begun,
Her echoes reached to many countries,
But never resorted to a gun.

Beyond the hills of Boston and London they met,
Echoes of a crying child quakes the earth,
Shall we send experts of behavioral economics?
Debating it at length.

Imperialism! Not political imperialism,
She fought it five decades ago,
Agreed on economic imperialism,
For the child to weep not for no more.

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