Their bones are decaying now.
The soil has swallowed up their chests
And all that is left are their skeletons
Fighting against the chemistry of the Earth
Here, where they once danced and played.
Nothing is left, but untold stories of how you
Forced them to their early graves,
You walk scot-free.
Shoulders hitting the clouds,
Hands swinging in the smelly air as you bear memories of their screams —
Your hands glued to their lips
As they holler for life to meet their siblings and play nafoot in the backyard,
Or hopscotch, with their best friends on the front porch,
Children playing, sharing teeth, living their best life, and
Moonwalking to the rhythm of their laughter
Oh how their families miss them.
Poor minors, their parents still do not know their whereabouts,
Nights have died and mornings have been born,
Advocates are ruining their esophagus shouting for justice
While you prepare the cemetery for your next rape victims,
It is too much.
Monrovia, I say, the whole country is weeping.
Mothers, siblings and fathers are sobbing for the demise of their offsprings
Yet you roar and feast on their innocence,
It is too much.
Your household, I say, the entire community is crying.
You just wounded the mother of your children,
The children watch their mother bleed with pain
And it is painful to watch your mother bleed in grief.
Authored By: Elvis M. D. Browne (Dequincy)
Featured Picture by Time Magazine
