The Genocide of Darfur: A Human Tragedy

Empty countryside, dusty roads and militia Kick over what’s left. A small blessing sprouts that a flock of sheep wanders, Showing some signs of hope and rebirth. Where are the children? Where have they gone? Huts in muddle cloth and clay A child’s red plastic shoe is thrown in the debris Buried under a thin layer of dust. The stench of decayed flesh Permeates the stiff air; A connected web of human bones thrown into graves while starving animals wander the parched land, snubbing their bony noses at what’s left. The dogs are the lucky ones. The insanity of it all I think. Skeletons entwined in the abyss of piles of dirt called graves and Whose Who? I wonder. Loved ones will never know where their loved ones are—there is no way when massive flesh becomes one pile of dead gardens without water. Sudanese no longer belong to a homeland in which they lived and were borne; frightened to speak so closed mouths are rampant in a torch torn silent village. What has happened to humanity? Since when has one group of people determined the plight of another? Is that humane? Living under sudden attacks. Little food, rows of twisted bones in deep dirt makeshift graves, closed mouths of fear, and muddy huts. Have changed the landscape of Darfur. Among the ruins of victims of war, Nomads now pick up the pieces slowly and graze sheep and cattle. AND I SCREAM! ECHOING TO AMERICA ON DEAF EARS.