How can we let it go on
like this? They sit helplessly under the blazing
sun, Skeletons with swollen
stomachs, Mis-shapen limbs and huge, shining
eyes, Tragic faces covered with
flies. They stoop forward, tense and
gaunt, Their faces plead for
help And there eyes are full of pain and
torture. I stand among them, deeply
moved; They see me there and look for
food, For my healthy form is
proof That I have always been
fed. Some of them have given
up, They know their time is running
out; But it doesn't occur to them to
shout, To shout at us for what we've
done, For the way we've let them
die, The way we've ignored their
strife. If we haven't enough, we always
complain And think up ways more to
gain. But they have nothing and what do we
do? We fight to get more for
ourselves, Then turn a blind eye And leave them all to die.
"Tribal Boy" portrait
and poem copyright Helen Charlotte Hill
