"She Was Born in July" 

She was born in July 2011
young, crowned in the colors of her own making.
Her anthem echoed over the Nile,
and for a moment, the world watched her rise,
unshackled, sovereign, full of sky. 

But peace is a fickle mother,
and her milk dried too soon. 

The drums that once welcomed her birth
now summon sons to die in fields
where millet should have grown.
Her rivers, sacred and swollen,
carry no fish, only memory. 

She was named South Sudan,
youngest daughter of Africa,
cut from the ribs of war,
nursed on the hope of nationhood,
and bathed in promises
too fragile to last. 

And yet, she is bleeding again. 

The same hands that lifted her flag
now raise rifles.
Brothers who once danced around fires
now burn each other's homes. 

Jonglei, Upper Nile, Unity
these are not just regions.
They are wounds,
etched across the map like torn skin. 

Her people
seven million strong and starving
are not just numbers in a report.
They are farmers without fields,
mothers without milk,
children with bellies full of emptiness
and eyes full of questions
no one wants to answer. 

"We drink from the swamps now,"
says Reath, a father of four.
"The traders have fled.
We survive on silence." 

Aid no longer reaches her heart.
Even hope stumbles at her borders,
confused by the smoke of burnt aid trucks
and the silence of closed clinics. 

And the world? 

The world writes reports,
sends condolences,
but forgets that hunger
is not a headline
it is a human rights crisis. 

She cries not for pity,
but for presence.
For promises kept.
For peace not in papers,
but in people's hands. 

And so we remember her
South Sudan:
not a lost cause,
but a living call. 

To feed, to shelter,
to protect, to listen.
To act. 

Bright Yom Dzeshie