21C Slavery

I wrote a (sort of!) poem. Poetry is still a complete mystery to me - but, I'm with Annie. (I gave up on the JanNoWriMo - I'd prefer to spend my time reading others' writing, than struggling to write my own drivel!)

‘Stop looking at me!’
cries the boy in the cage
who, despite being eight
has a face full of rage
and eyes rimmed with
the sadness of one
eight times his age.

He threw a rock, once
or maybe it was two.
Everyone cheered
as over the wall it flew.
It hit a man on the head;
felled down on golden ground;
‘Who did that? Was it you?’

His cage is filled with blood;
his mother’s arms; his father’s eyes;
his sister’s heart; his brother’s brains.
In the corner, his grandmother lies,
and all had thrown not one stone,
though they must be ever dead
as hatred rushes in ‘cross the skies.

‘Give me a cave to live in
and a pond from which I can fish.
Freedom from this slavery
Is all that I wish.
One hundred million missiles
or one hundred thousand stones
cannot break these bars,
don’t you see?
You have your Zion,
but you took it from me.’