The children of Belarus


The children of Belarus


The children of Belarus cry,

the flowers are too young to die,

but die they will and with them shall,

the children of Belarus go.


A cry of pain from anguished souls,

for whom the man made death bell tolls,

their breath squeezed out by blooded hand

as cancer grips the thyroid gland.


Of nature’s fruits they must beware,

destruction flies upon the air,

pervading through the kitchen’s heat,

pale faces fed polluted meat.


The winds of change have whistled by,

exposing the official lie,

where rulers once relaxed with ease,

their youngest victims lie diseased.


Life’s tapestry that once held fast,

woven by generations past,

very fabric of their culture,

ripped apart by peerless vultures.


The children of Belarus cry,

for they are all too young to die,

but die they will and with them shall,

the future of Belarus go.

 

 

 

 

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