Are the Children Alright
In the root zone
The children are camouflaged
In the zone of the sun’s light
The children are building industries
In the zone of bones
The children are mining their flesh
So full of sorrow for the fathers
Whose ignorance has spent
The strength of their muscles
On the wages paid beneath
The shadow of commerce
In the war zone
The children are catching bomb
With their skin and they dream
Of how with ease is dying done
In the zone of the moment
The children are counting
The thin dogs running wild
In the wilderness on the out skirt of town
In the comfort zone
The children are cautious
Of fathers who whisper
Familiarity of the beauty sons
In the zone of disbelief
The children are straining
To hear the echo of a mystery
Told about the current constellations
When the children were gathering
In squalor beneath the journey
That has taken control of them
As an unsettled melody
In the zone of the market place
The children are faceless laborers
Fearless and faultless of the wars
For food we wage
In the zone of hunger
The children are bloated
To their bones
Their skin drapes
The flies drink from their eyes
In the zone of urgency
The children are baring weapons
At sunrise and putting on
A grown up’s uniforms
poem by David E. Patton
Added by Poetry Lover
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