by Siddiq Islam

Caught on the end of the fisherman’s line,
Wriggling and tensing and flailing around,
Pecked at and flaked by the sharp sharks who dine,
Shredding away in the hunting ground,

Drying in the sun on the grey, gravel road,
Washed from the earth in the heavy storm’s rains,
Hearing Death’s calls as the strict heat unloads,
Awaiting relief from the steep, scything pains,

Singed by the flames when the town should ignite,
Trampled by the boots who come to firefight,

Ripped from the ground by the small, playful boy,
Soon tossed aside like a worn, broken toy,

Snipped by the beak of the peckish white stork,

Impaled by the end of the dirt-pitcher’s fork,

Trodden on and left to bleed out where we squirm,

We’re all of us dying like piteous worms.