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Poverty...

As poverty struck the lands,
The people crying out,
How life is so devastating,
For money they only catch trout.

But in these sad lands,
Poverty struck, worst of all is disease,
It doesn't just destroy humans,
But all the wildlife and trees.

As the children die,
The parents can't do much,
They can hold their child,
In the tightest clutch.

Not to kill them of course,
But to exterminate the, sad feelings,
The only funeral to give,
Is one with prayers and kneeling.

But there's no fancy place,
To commemorate, the dead,
They're buried underground,
Not the nicest bed.

But there they lay, now free,
From the land they once knew,
Still cared for and remembered,
Their bodies lying askew.

But they don't get what we do,
No protection from disease,
Nothing from mosquitoes,
Or the deadly fleas.

Maybe whilst reading this poem,
Many would have died,
Maybe even parents,
And then the many, cried...

poem by Viraj Bhanshaly
Added by Poetry Lover
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