A long time ago, when I first began writing, I wrote this for a boy . . .

by Elijah Z.

A boy with cracked red dirt plastering his dark skin,

A stare skyward…a salty river of agony streaks a path through the dirt. He cries.
He is not dreaming of being a pop-star, he has no idea of personal property.
To this boy wealth is having a full belly.

A man to his left falls to the ground, heaves his last breathe and is quiet.

The boy takes another blow to his heart, and is quiet.
In a distant land, a boy gazes star-ward, feels within him pain, for a boy far away.
Living in a war-zone, family fallen, friends killed…not with enough food for the day.
This boy cries a salty tear which runs from his blue eyes, down his fair skin…
A person passes by in a car, frowning…as if not seeing his prosperity,
Taking for granted the immense wealth he observes,
On his way back to the refugee camp, the boy drags his mangled leg, a memento
From the day his city was engulfed in flames, his family destroyed…
On the edge of the barbwire barricade the boy reaches up into the sky,
And somewhere far away the boy with the blue eyes does the same,
For a moment they embrace, mutually aware of each-others pain.

by Elijah Z.
I am seventeen growing up in America, and I hate being unable to be there with you, supporting you.
Things feel very silent here.

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