by Joya Fairchild
I saw their faces, the hungry, destitute and forlorn,
this river of people that tread a continent war-torn.
Children clutched to mothers breasts, deeply throed,
thus, vacant eyes devoid of spirits abode...
Empty as a black nights cloak, despair of hope,
mercilessly treading regions, sanctuaries sought, yet remote.
Earth's sorrow ponders the crime of her Nations.
That firmament in cosmos order endures with patience...
this third planet from her source, in harsh judgments face,
will surely spew this Specie out... and seek another race.