Mother sat
with hunger on her hands
and soaked love in her eyes.
Then the flies came
to sing nasty songs to her ears.
We listened to the interrupted tale
of hunger and strife.
But mother didn’t sing
when singing time came
in the folk tale.
She just pointed to the flies
and asked us to hum
the same song sung by the wings.
We sang the winged song
as we joined the search.
Fly and child sang together.
Mother and the leaves fell together,
father was not present,
and we never met him.
While the fly sings her search
we search together
or form a joint committee
to resolve the issues of fly and child.
For on our hearts
are the steaming finger-prints of the fly
Whose wings told us stories
of the search for life, and to whom we belong.
Over the radio
we hear there is a crisis
Members of Parliament demand higher salaries,
so there is no debate about us.
At least we are free from wrecked promises.
We shall debate
in the open chamber
with a thousand million diseases
standing for the Grave constituency.
And figures of population increase
standing for Survival constituency.
Dogs-cats-rats-fleas
send representatives to this chamber,
so the debate gets dreary at times.
Language problems!
lack of seats!
or simple lack of order in the house.
Then we share all we have –
from pocketfuls of blood
to parliamentary jargon.
Together we survive,
the subject of long debating sessions
and stale overdue projects
that crawl now
when they should have run yesterday.