In
my country, we live by a code.
We
are often told to pray, that it is the ray
to
light our way
and
when we open our mouths, vowels form
volcanic sounds erupting with
thunderous
rumbling consonants that emit from our bellies
foreign
languages as we strain to hear the still voice amidst the noise.
We
are told to believe everything will work out
Chant
verses to subdue any avarice,
Cos
to be poor is to be the richest man alive.
But
cursed are the meek in spirit, for in their silence
they’ve
built an asylum that house refugees with utter disregard
of
our beliefs
sealing
the fate of generations to come in concrete and wiping out humanity.
As
we lay our moral six feet under the ground, the final prayer on their
lips
will be the proclamation of a God, they say never existed.
