I’m a child of the hills, my people are dying

They said that the people from the hills are beautiful and were writing about us
Seconds before they turned our houses to ashes.
I wish my poems could sound happier everytime you see my name at the end of the lines
But i’m a child of the hills and my people are dying.
Their screams from the valley of death will live with me
And i must find ways to interpret them for the world to understand.
I’ll have to tell them about “the burning ambulance”.”the head on the fence”,”the naked parade”,
“Olivia and Florence”, “158 deaths,11 missing bodies” and more
I’m afraid i’m running out of words because no alphabets will ever feel the piercings and the
stitchings my people had to go through.
On sundays, when the road is clear and the sky gets a little sad,
We would pick flowers for a dead father,a dead mother,a dead daughter and a dead son.
I wish my friend would stop sending me Happy Birthday,
I know she meant well but I’m a child of the hills and my people are dying.
I cannot use a better metaphor for death than death
Because death makes no sound.
The poets across the ocean said that the moon was beautiful last night
But here,we can’t see the moon from shut windows and gated compounds.
I want to be like those poets who care about the moon
But i’m a child of the hills and my people are dying.