Not a sound except those filthy insects flying around as
the ants nibble through the old, rotting wooden planks on the ground,
and what we call our home is no longer safe and sound.

Not a word.
Not a word to describe our room, where not one thing is in tune,
where there is no beading loom and no place to call a bedroom.
Not even a window from which to see the luminescent moon.

Not a moment.
Not a moment where my beaten up feet don’t hurt
as sweat drips from my worn-out shirt,
and all I have to clean myself is a torn-up rag covered in dirt.

Not a sign.
Not a sign that there will come an end to these daily lashings of my back,
Or our broken kitchen rack, and eating out of a sack.
I wonder why I want to survive the attack.

Pieces of my flesh fly, and the scars are deep and dry,
Yet I cannot tell my children, for them I need to lie.