The wind blows, the baby cries
People die, their deaths are untold
Land is desolate, nothing here grows
People living, for the sight of a food bowl
Trapped in an existence, it's hard to think
Such people really exist, hard to believe
Their plight is accepted
When money so wasted could be redirected
They're not some race that don't feel pain
Stravation is something you don't become immune to
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