84th Birthday

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Hardly reason to celebrate
after all these years
of hoping that things will get better—
so this poem is for every child gunned down,
blown up as they walk down the streets of their villages
in Mexico,
in Sudan,
in the Congo and cities in America—
for every child who goes to bed hungry,
for the homeless abroad and in the U.S.A.,
for the victims of border wars and those kidnapped by drug lords or pirates,
renditioned by the state itself,
for those sent overseas and those who come back damaged,
for the elderly, who now must work until they die,
for all the species of birds, animals and plants that will become extinct in a     new, Great Dying,
for cities slowly drowned by the rising seas, from glacier melt and bad levees,
for the millions of refugees on the road and in camps that barely keep them     alive,
for those living in failed states, trying to lead lives of quiet decency,
for the dying of the earth and the terror of nuclear disaster,
for those who still love peace and seek it,
for those who tell the truth and are murdered for it.