Poem #26

Havelaar

Lives taken, bodies broken, who is left to grow the gold?

Rifles cracking, no children laughing; the boss’ purse is full.

Sunny skies and broken pavement; people passing by

The aged in years unnumbered hang their heads and cry

Walking sideways, undercover, chasing dreams if youth

He strives to live amid the hate, what is a man to do?

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