Poetry

When I look to my own continent
there are only ruins of places
that at a time was glamorous and I struggle to fit in
the beautiful places where waterfalls does roar
and I see people who are ravaged by famine, war,
unrest and a population explosion,
people who die from pestilence,
who live totally immoral,
and wild animals do disappear into hungry stomachs,
while I am blinded by the sand
as if the desert is crawling
deeper and deeper into the continent
and the political majority does devour everything
until nothing is left for anybody.