The feeding bag boy

By: Hayet Ben Bada

In  that hopeless world lying calmly in my eyes,

There was no morning, there was no sun rise

Nothing but a sorrowful  lost stare and the little hands,

Holding a feeding bag and that tube stuck into her hands

Another story  was there in those poor African parts

Where  a medical tube seperated two combined hearts,

Where millions of orgnizations could never organize,

a single ‘normal’ life to those innocent little butterflies

Oh, what a pity...

Oneday, on my way to the blue world embodying the real one for me

And allowing me to talk freely with my friends and my family

That facebook that used to make me both happy and unhappy

That facebook that used to gather the parts of the galaxy

I saw a little African child in what seemed to be a white shirt,

Standing like a junior doctor working the night shift,

A question mark on his face told lots of stories

And a pathetic eye accumulating dozens of worries

An African poor child raising the feeding bag  of his mother

Maybe checking her pulse too, or thinking to call his father

But there was no stethoscope and there was no father

Because there were no human voices around

Only bodies lying lonely on the ground

Lonely he was, the African child with no ability

Standing disappointed, unlike the statue of liberty,

That ‘s enlightening only Manhattan and some imaginary worlds

As  the real world is wasting time and words

Alas... That statue could never see the sad faces overseas,

That statue could never feel their empty poor bellies