The child is yet to die

The child is yet to die
not until fed
and yesterday's hunger
is but a pale memory
forever wiped from history

The child still lifts
no longer a fist but an open hand
begging for stale leftovers
no longer from the baas table
for the baas is no more.

He weeps unceasingly
at his brother's side
the one who never fought
the one who never tasted despair
yet lifted the trophy of freedom.

The child was there
when his freedom was traded
mute, silenced he could not say
when, for gold, history was defeated
in the name of public interest.

But the child still leak his wounds
and mourn the fallen history
The child still stands still
as much awaited freedom vanish
and looses its prestigious promise.