THE LIVING DEAD.

 Burn me alive or drown me to death,

Let your rage ignite the path we tread.

What you claim as yours was once my own,

But the colonels seal it, as if they own.

When you seized my land, I stood in despair;

When you took my wife—must I forbear?

The blood and soot never scared my child,

But the white and khaki left her defiled.

Famine and drought struck us twice,

Yet their eyes stayed blind, their hearts like ice.

"Hold on, just a bit more," I tell my soul,

Though all others have left me to the cold.

Why should I live? For whom should I cry?

Who bears the blame for this endless strife?

I wake each day in chaos' embrace,

Seeking a white flag, a moment of grace.

And when I thank my God for another dawn,

Their war cries rise, their violence drawn.

"Never shall we cease to kill our foes—

Be it a child or a nurse enclosed!"

And with those words, they shatter my hope,

The only thread that fed my soul.

Why do they fight over soil and sand?

Doesn't it vanish once we leave this land?

But who am I to question this fight?

Am I not the living dead tonight?