Child of Africa

The child was born.
Thrust out into the cold, unfriendly world.
He sought warmth and shelter,
And found it in his mother's body.
He sought food and drink,
And was given it by his mother.
He sought comfort and assurance,
And found it in his mother's voice.

The child grew.
His mother died of disease.
He sought warmth and shelter,
And found it in his family's house.
He sought food and drink,
And was given it by his father.
He sought comfort and assurance,
And found little.

The child lived.
War devastated the land and destroyed his home.
He sought warmth and shelter,
And found none.
He sought food and drink,
And found little.
He sought comfort and assurance,
And found even less than before.

The child grew weaker.
Drought came upon the land, and his family starved.
He sought warmth and shelter,
And found none.
He sought food and drink,
And found none.
He sought comfort and assurance,
And found none.

The child died.
What have we done to deserve our lives of luxury?
We seek warmth and shelter,
And find it in abundance.
We seek food and drink,
And find more than enough.
He sought comfort and assurance,
And find plenty.

We live in luxury.
Can we not help to provide the starving millions
With warmth and shelter?
With food and drink?
With comfort and shelter?
We have done nothing to attain our lives of luxury.
Must they do the impossible to obtain life itself?

(my first published poem - written almost twenty years ago now)