Catherine Weiner
University of Florida
August 2006
ON THE DUSTY roads of nowhere,
there is famine in the land,
Little children wailing, bleeding,
begging for a loving hand.
In the land that we call freedom,
people rush from here to there
With their pockets full of riches,
focused on their own affairs.
As lice and worms crawl up their skin
and tears fall from their eyes,
They talk in tongues in the upper room
and snack on apple pies.
Skinny cows and leafless trees,
one hundred and twenty-two degrees.
Mrs. Mary’s darling dachshund
drag’s his belly ’cross the floor
In the air-conditioned houses,
in the land where they have more.
Drive by shootings, tribal warfare,
adults must settle scores,
And the children stand by pleading
for the love and care they’re needing,
While the rich man sits there reading
about his tickets and his seating.
On the dusty roads of nowhere,
little children walk hand in hand
Picking through the dirt and garbage,
through the refuse and the sand.
Who will go and feed the children,
rescue them from their despair
Clothe them, love them, heal them,
lead them, be an answer to their prayer?
