A poem by Gillian Aicken

He sits on his bed
Of wooden planks
Balancing upon piles of bricks.
His black eyes
Sunk into a tiny skull.
Dull pools, which hold
A lifetime of pain.
Stick-like arms
Lie across his swollen stomach.
His breathing is shallow.
He is too weak to move.
Nine years old,
And slowly dying,
Because he does not have
Enough to eat.

He sits on a padded chair,
Chubby fingers thumping
At the computer keyboard
In one corner of his bedroom.
His tiny eyes almost disappearing
Into his round face,
Glazed by the long hours
Of staring at the screen.
A plump stomach bulges out
From beneath his T-shirt.
His breathing is heavy.
He is too tired to play outside.
Nine years old
And slowly dying
Because he has
Too much to eat.

Two boys.
Two countries.
Same World.

Gillian Aicken
UK