Blinded was she; the young girl in the corner,
Quivering with fear and trauma.
There was gunfire, shouts and laughter,
whilst she hid in the corner,
Hoping to blend in the scene.
They opened the front door,
and her heart sank to the floor,
When she heard the orders,
And they noisily raided her scene.
There were only two storeys,
Made of cardboard and metal.
She head time for one last tear;
one last prayer
before the men barged into her room
and dragged her out of the house kicking and screaming
and shouted praise at each other, like she was some sort of trophy.
She took one last glance at her home
In the Congo: the **** capital.
She wished she had died in the explosion, like her family.
She let out one last scream of pain before she was hit across the head
With the barrel of a gun.
And that was the end of Rosa.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Blinded was she; the young girl in the corner,
Quivering with fear and trauma.
There was gunfire, shouts and laughter,
whilst she hid in the corner,
Hoping to blend in the scene.
They opened the front door,
and her heart sank to the floor,
When she heard the orders,
And they noisily raided her scene.
There were only two storeys,
Made of cardboard and metal.
She head time for one last tear;
one last prayer
before the men barged into her room
and dragged her out of the house kicking and screaming
and shouted praise at each other, like she was some sort of trophy.
She took one last glance at her home
In the Congo: the **** capital.
She wished she had died in the explosion, like her family.
She let out one last scream of pain before she was hit across the head
With the barrel of a gun.
And that was the end of Rosa.
There is a war going on in the Congo that has lasted for almost twenty years; the number of deaths that happen are the equivalent of the number of people that died on 9/11 everyday. In the Congo 1,100 women get ***** everyday.
Request permission to use this poem