Koan

The sun gently rises above a proud eastern horizon
The rays of dawn shrouded by the smoke from a grenade..
One of the pawns in this lethal game being played
Is that of the vulnerable country, succumb to the sick masquerade
Of a land of more power, using blood rather than lemons
For their 'life's lemonade'

From direct invasion in the Nazi soldier style
To arming opposing factions in Rwanda, all the while
Destroying what these people hold closest to their hearts
Allowing them to be witness to family members being blown apart
Genocide is planned, systematic, and sequential
And to the psychological being, always detrimental
We as westerners have become to self-involved
And into selfishness has our independence evolved.

Mothers with young ones bound to their chest
Spend everyday searching for a safe place to rest
With rubble and debris strewn across their homeland,
Their countrymen losing fingers, arms, feet, and hands
Small children in torn clothes bloodied and bruised,
Fight with best friends and siblings over shelter and food
Tired, exhausted, and mentally decayed
The fabric of human capability is now worn and frayed
What are you to do when your country is lost
And continuously paying with lives...the ultimate cost.

Infants wander aimlessly with tears in their eyes
As unmoved soldiers silence their cries
This once everyday person, a human being
Now warped and twisted into a killing machine
An unstoppable force destroying people and homes
Trekking on, and ignoring that dying person's yelps and moans
As they are drained of their very life source
Joining the others'...leaked onto the floor.
Everyday is a struggle to survive,
Such is the twisted effect of genocide.

No bombs going off around our homes,
Or dealing with the sight of children walking alone
Some children as young as nine
Left in charge of the ones LUCKY enough not to be left behind
No parents, aunts, relatives. Where have they gone?
What we take for granted are the things for which they long
With hope and determination as their only shield
Why can we not provide them with a sword of assistance to wield?

Oppressive countries paint their pictures in blood
With their paintbrush of sorrow and their palette of death,
In order for us to directly oppose them, must we become the canvas?