I was born in the middle of a war.
My mother died giving birth to me.
Aunt Khalfa said my father was killed in another war;
Not the war I was born during.
When I was five,
The only form of knowledge I knew,
Was to count using my fingers.
My siblings hated me.
They said I caused mother's death.
I guess I did.
We never had more than two slices of bread,
And a browning pear to eat daily.
I was lucky I was big enough,
To fill my own pail,
With the water from the well.
Some other kids in the neighbourhood weren't.
Like me, they didn't have Mom and Dad.
But at least I had Aunt Khalfa.
For these kids,
Most of the time,
It never ends well.
They are born tiny with bloated tummies,
They are always hungry,
They grow taller and skinnier,
Eventually you see them lying by the side,
With flies hovering over they decaying corpses.