WAR TORN

• Ameera Pocha, Grade 8
• Poetry
• 2021

The hands that are raised are the only ones left,
Abandoned alleyways where souls once crept.
Only for the bombs to go off again,
Burying their spirits in cement, in vain.

Black, red and white torn into waves of pain,
Darkness present but silenced, provoking the slain.
Death and blood stain their fingertips,
Whilst we hide, they call for more battleships.

Gasping for air, streets devoid of life,
Children on their knees, eyes brimming with strife.
Heartache from man's inhumanity to man,
Praying I could travel to before these bombs began.

War torn.