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Michelle Smith
Savaged Land

Africa is B-L-E-E-D-I-N-G,
If you listen you can hear her S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G,
As they tear away the dead child from her womb,
She's been battered; she's been bruised,
Blood poisoned and abused,
As they drill and drain her life blood for their own.

Her Earth is dry; her land is weak;
Her children cry themselves to sleep,
As G8 members ponder in their comfy rooms,
Dispossessed and displaced,
Humanity slaps her in the face,
Outraged at her disgrace,
And wish to silence her solitary tune.

Ghostly shadows haunt the dreams,
Tormenting souls of men,
Who leave behind a bitter crop,
Of Civil War intend.

The ebb and flow of rivers, spring
No life within its stream,
As heavy waters overflow,
A rancid catch it brings.

The wound is great; too late
To stem the bitter flow,
A surge, the earth divides below,
Her cradle of our time will fall,
Amongst the wrath and mirth we cling,
Her rage to live will suck us in.