With the very little energy left in their bodies
The old men drag their sticks
Yes, the sticks more exhausted than their bones
To the torturing heat they succumb
A s they stand on the queue
Under the ever blazing scorching sun
Up at the sky they look
To clamour for a cloud that would augur relief
But never will it come into view of their tired eyes
Drums beat in their stomachs
For they have come afar piece
With nothing to chew on but their thoughts
All in search of the expensive grain
To fill their starving tummies
In their tired brains
Never do they recall the time
When there hadn't been a sense of void
Or premonitions of death
When dawn rose like a curtain
On a new a performance
For they have lost hope for life
As they lie on their sick beds
Yet on a queue for the scarce medicine
For which they have waited
For many a hundred ages
Many questions than answers rise in my mind
For neither are the rich left out in the queues
A s they also queue for fuel, soft drinks and forex
Between my dry lips
Only one sentence I utter
' We are a sick nation'
Cry my beloved country

Volles Banda

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cry-my-beloved-country/