Darfur

When the village lies in ashes--
cold, black and silent--three hundred thousand die
and smoke rises like a prayer:
Rachael weeps for her firstborn.

When the bodies lie ashen, too,
the wounds speak into the abyss
and Able's blood cries out from the dust.
Ache, howl, and wail for those who remain!

When a child's form lies in the heap
grasping hollow death and a gash in his head
with small thin fingers,
there is no Phoenix, and he will not rise.

When ashes flit on the wind,
a woman sits and hugs her knees,
rocks slowly and stares distantly
wrapped in red shame like a scarf.

When an old man's tears wet his ash-colored beard,

two million walk the desert road to the refugee camp,
and the church debates the ashen-gray areas of obscure doctrine,
and remains cold, black, and silent.

http://www.phrusa.org/research/sudan/