Somalia has been bleeding for a long time, and one day if the world don't do something it will be dry, perverted and poisoned by a few greedy war lords and muslims extremists murdering the last chance of recovery.

This poem is dedicated to our Gentle Deser Wanderer
Abdi-Noor Mohamed (Eagle of hope)



From Mogadishu, the wind pointed
the way to a man with a wounded heart,
the direction was to a distant nowhere
which even a short distance was too far,
he wasn’t a peregrine searching the truth,
under is sandals he was tramping lies
that his people when enduring hardships
will hear the guns voice day and night.

He couldn’t tell his camel to go through
of that parable needle that so little eye,
or demand the answer to his questions
to that most Merciful God he called Allah,
but the question were there, in empty cribs,
and on the spoiled by lead so many farms,
he was persecuted for ask so many questions
and when reason is dead you leave your land.

But how many tears will fell on his pillow
knowing that his country was sinking fast
in the sea of contempt of mighty nations
that any help wouldn’t give, but criticize
the unarmed innocent people for them to die
slaughtered lambs, without putting a fight,
the same nations that will hurry to help
them possessing gold, oil, diamonds, anyone!

The Gentle Desert Wanderer as stopped
in a place that cannot be colder than his heart,
because absence has taken that fire within
that could conquer the mighty Sahara’s sands,
his tears are falling now on other land’s snow
which don’t hear the voice of a man that is sad,
like many oasis will do, when whispering love
in the many ears of above a twinkling stars.