The ducklings waddled with
their mother in company.
Zigzag at home they arrived carrying a heap of sorrow
with sunken begging eyes,
they knocked at my door.
Sounding my name with faint voices.
Their dry long beaks welcomed me with half smiles.
I noticed gullies wide enough to erode a life on their
They appeared to me
like kwashiorkor kids of the eighties.
With roads running across their bellies.
A stench from their decaying toes chocked my nose.
I detected fitidness emanating from their clothes.

"We are refugees" they announced.
The result of two hungry bulls at war was vivid.
Their hope for a better life had been freezed.
A dim future with corossive darkness ahead.
Misfortune was the only food they had.
And I stood stuttled staring at them without help.

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