The Republic of Congo, Africa: Falling Whistles

The refugee camp-ground has no grass just dirt.

Heat waves from the summer slither over the tortured Earth.

Learning about a war I know little of,

I sit next to a thirteen-year-old boy.
You seem a bit young to be a soldier, kid.
The smallest that can’t lift guns are forced to stand in the front lines.
Raising his hand upward in the form of a pistol, he roars,
POW POW POW!

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