By Ivor W. Hartmann
Our fathers are gone
Lost to the abysmal sea
Swirling in a sargasso of plastic
Our mothers are silent
Lassitude wreathed
And buried them deep
Our sisters are mad
They maunder only to the past
One they can’t remember
Our brothers are running
Though they know not
From what they run or where to
Our children refuse to be born
Their glares of rebuke
Keep us all in labour