A FEAST FOR THE VULTURES

The order came from above:
Feed the vultures with their flesh – our flesh!
We wetted our pants,
Promptly.
Our vulnerability stood before us; vulnerable, naked.

The moon was just dying when they came – the hosts
Of the party, upon the orders of the Chief Host.
They made firewood of their guns
And fires of their bullets,
Ready to roast us, the meat, for their winged guests.

The last born of sleep was still at the threshold of my eyelids,
Going home, when the screams of the Timipres caught my ears,
They are now ready for the guests, pity.
Squatting behind the tall grasses, tears broke the barricades of my eyelids.

Why should we suffer so? I ask,
Cursing the Creator for the gift of crude oil.
I hear the sound of the river, I smile.
When the vultures com for their food
I shall be somewhere, covered in fresh, cold water.

interesting poem, creative and revealing!