The Infant Of Biafra

The deathsheads of Biafra
Are haunting Bellamys
Where scotch and soda trickle down
The necks of old MPs
And some men talk of justice
But most the credit Squeeze.

The corpses of Biafra
Stand at the mirror when
Our daughters use some hair spray
And paint their lids again
And wear a thirty dollar dress
To catch the eyes of men.

The small skulls of Biafra
Look in the window while
Our children munch their biscuits
And drink their milk and smile
To see the talking animals
Above the TV dial.

The thin ghosts of Biafra
Watch while our sons drink beer
And fork out dough for petrol
And put the car in gear
And drive ten miles to another hop
And let their girlfriends steer.

The starved eyes of Biafra
Observe the women who
Buy toys for their own children
Enough to stock a zoo
And plan a trip to Sydney
When the business deal goes through.

The dark bones of Biafra
Will never leave their door
Because all things are joined in Christ
And the rich must feed the poor
Or lie like broken dummies
In Hell’s department store.

The dead child of Biafra
Will lie on Christmas Day
In the cribs of all the churches
Upon the rotting hay
For those who did not feed Him
But threw His Life away.

But those who showed Him mercy
Will find a Live Child there
To smile at them and give them grace
And hope beyond despair
And sins as old as mountains
Will melt into the air.

by James K Baxter

Comments (16)

Good poem
An amazing write- - - - - - -To see light in darkness is really wonderful discovery- - - in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred, I practice being myself, and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me, ''
Adjustments and compromise is applicable to those who deny to stand and fight. Inspiring poem,
if you can live with yourself, what more would you want? well said!
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