The year was 1985. Somalia, there I was.
Immersed in a culture I had never studied,
among a people draped in courtesy but guarded love.
Fast forward to March 1993. Somalia, I’m here again.
Amidst a tolling civil war:
famine and mass suffering have settled in.
Today, while relax in Mombasa, Kenya
I ruminate on pictures from this mental screen:
Little children facing death, young minds with faded dreams.
Emaciated children with head sores, covered by bugs and flies.
Little children too feeble to walk, young hearts with yellow eyes.
Youths with wilted limbs, adolescences who are very thin.
Images of living skeletons, babies with leathery skin.
This misery has touched me mentally,
perplexed, how this could be.
From the scars I live to build our youth,
The scars of a dreadful year, the year 1993.