The World’s Wounded Cry
A poem
A poem
Later that night, I held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered, where does it hurt?
It answered everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
I traced the mountains, the valleys, the seas,
the rivers that cut through the land like veins.
It pulsed beneath my fingertips, this aching earth
crying out in pain from the wounds we have inflicted.
The cities, the slums, the factories and farms,
each point on the map, a story of struggle and strife.
the atlas trembled, its pages stained with tears,
whispering its sorrows, its anguish, its endless grief.
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