Morning alarms blares
With cock roars,
Whistles of bullets
That either thrust into anyone,
Or reminds us of our elapsing time.
Like our shadow dash into broken cars and wild forests.
So do our hope of seeing the next day.
Each morning, mothers plant kisses on our desiccated faces.
Mothers, Fathers, friends, our brothers and sisters
Are scattered, broken or hunted by grenades.
Dinners ate with tears and pain.
When will we live?
When will we return to our playgrounds?
When will our tears dry?
When will we dine in our room?
Pray for Sudan
- Joseph Jasef
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