A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.

This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.

An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.

This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.

Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.

This is the ******, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.

This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.