Standing in the sand thinking…

There is no reason for the sun to rise
here; in the Somalia sky.
There are no birds to sing a morning greeting.
No animals lye slumbering.
No plants dot the landscape.

The suns’ rays do warm the dead.
Creating an increase in the stench of the rotting dead.
This increasing strength of the stench!
Till this stench becomes palatable,
Then a malleable thing!
I form some into balls and store it in my shirt pocket.

Here on the Horn of Africa
Staring at the morning sky.
A great whirling cloud appears.
A cloud moving without wind.
It descends.
Dispersing like rain.
A great cloud of insatiable biting flies!

Someone is approaching…
One of the walking dead,
With sagging bare black breasts
Carrying a few possesions in a basket
On her head.

A clan of Warlords rules this land of the Dead.
In the midst of an inferno of heat and biting flies,
Here on a Mogadishu street;
I stand guard.

Further down the street,
AK-47 at the ready
Stands another man.
One of theirs.
A well-fed Warlord of the dead.

Between he and I; there exists:
A gulf of Islamic fervor.
On a war torn street,
In the city of the deceased,
Walks a one armed child.

I entice the child to come closer.
We share food and smiles.
Forgotten are the heat and flies.
A naked child stands mesmerized.

The array of weapons I posses
Are of no interest to my young guest.
The object of his fascination appears to be
A Timex strapped to my wrist.

No longer seeming naked and poor
Wearing a smile that would brighten Heaven,
That one arm now wears a watch.

Laughing as he turns and runs
Thru the war torn street.
Momentarly forgotten:
The Warlord of the Deceased
Steps from the shadows
To club him over the head.

Lying in the dusty street kicked and beaten.
The child’s newly acquired treasure is taken,
By the well-fed Warlord.

(perfect sight picture…)
Grinning, the Warlord turns
Toward my position
(perfect sight alignment..)
Admiring the child’s treasure
The last thing he sees.
(hair trigger squeeze…)

Battered and bloody
Stumbling to his feet,
My one armed friend
Retrieves my gift.
In his bloody smile
I glimpse the reason.

Standing in the sand thankful…
For the Somalia sunrise.