THE THORN IS THEIR BED

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THE THORN IS THEIR BED


By Ojudu Babafemi  

May 30, 2026

Tonight, I turn upon my bed,
Soft pillow beneath my head,
Yet sleep escapes me, teleported
To where stolen children lie.

The shrub is their bed.
The cold earth their mattress.
The restless wind their blanket.
The dark forest their prison.

Little feet that should chase butterflies
Now stumble through thorns and fear.
Tiny hands that should hold toys
Clutch nothing but trembling hope.

They cry for mummy.
They call for daddy.
But only the trees answer,
Swaying sadly in the night.

Some are barely old enough
To firmly hold their feeding bottles 
Yet they have learned too early
The language of terror.

The stars above them shine the same,
But they do not see their beauty.
Their eyes are filled with tears,
Their hearts crowded with dread.

And while the world watches,
They wait and wonder:
Will morning bring freedom,
Or another day of fear, of rain?

Tonight, as ours sleep safely,
May we remember those children of sorrow.
For somewhere in that lonely wilderness,
The shrub is their bed,
And home is only a dream.

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