the dust of empty spaces
washes off children's faces

refresh and restore
the lean veins
of the desolate young

there are hyena's in hearts
of the infants in Africa

find them where crying
jackals listen and they call
warriors whose bullets
would be blessings

they came and gathered
the little ones
in belated consolation

an orphanage raised

and oranges grew
a mission of breastplates
for the fatherless

where dust flinches
in the faces of love

Elna Nel

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mission-3/