Sun and sand and scrub and sweat,

famine, filth and flies and fear,

running eyes and wasted frames,

open sores and tears.

Wind and dust and dirt and death,

shallow graves for all that’s left.

Soon the sand will cover all.

Drought has scourged the fragile land,

people now return to it.

 

Yet not so very far away,

a war of greed and empty words,

waged by those who’s only creed,

is, I will take, I will succeed.

And we can find the ships and tanks.

And we can find the men and funds

And we can find an endless stream

of planes and rockets, bombs and guns.

 

The Prairie wheat is on the ground.

The farmers had a bounteous year-

with elevators full of grain.

The trains are idle. Where the ships?

Where the will and where the call

to take it to the famined land

where people die for need of it?

 

The dainty and the debonair,

the TV or the music shows.

Are these the only thing we heed?

Can we not hear a cry for help?

Would we rather fatten rats

or let grain rot in golden hills?

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1990