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Poem: The forgotten generations


We are our fathers’ sons
We speak our mothers’ tongue
We’ve been taught on how to serve
See us now living on the edge
Promised us a brighter day
Than show us a better way

Aiya oh!
I smile but is this my face?
Aiya Oh!
I live but is this my place?

We are our fathers’ armour
We thrive on our mothers’ humour
We’ve been told, land is a friend
See us now such chaotic blend
Fear not for what we are
Hear us for who we are

Aiya Oh!
I dream but where is my choice?
Aiya Oh!
I scream but is this my voice?

We are our fathers’ bones
We sense our mothers’ tones
We’ve been shaped from primitive
See us now, pray for more positive
Shake our hands not our hopes
Take our scopes not our lands

Aiya Oh!
I breathe my intoxicated street?
Aiya Oh!
I stand but is this my feet?

Aiya Oh!
I try to run but is this the way?
Aiya Oh!
I like to live but who will pay?

Marie Mondu, 29, was born Bundi.  She works for Caritas Australia as a research officer in two highlands provinces of PNG after completing university five years ago. “I love creative art,”she says, “and people and places amaze me. Lyrics and freelance poetry is my strength, which I have been improvising on to encourage youth participation in HIV advocacy.”


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Reginald Renagi

Great poem, Marie. Keep writing and send this as an entry to next year's Crocodile Prize competition.

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