Somalia

Molten rivers of glass float and yearn
while sparkles of ash spurt and vanish the
empty night sky. Dimples of floating hands,
stark white with cracked red nails, dot a hopeful
nation, trembling with stagnant desire. Reeking
of words grotesque, draped by the stuttering West,
distant and alone do we bow our heads. Molten rivers
of glass float, we swim with the melting shards, there is no
hope for our Somalia, a rogue state without any qualms.