It started as an itch;

A rash throbbing on the skin, Something in the air perhaps, Seeping into the Kenyan village. No hospitals close by,

Locals withered in the sun, Called on the shaman.

The herbs failed,

The itch spread ferociously.

The moon had barely risen once,

When the rash evolved and mutated; Crimson dots became black lumps, Throbbing as if alive.

Eyes reddened with welts,

Flesh between the buboes melted.

Make-shift tents rose, housing the sick. Without prejudice; men, women, young and old, Black fluid flowed from every orifice.

Coughing started following the second moon, No one worked on the land and no one walked. Reliant on the well, medics watered the needy, Flushed with blood-soaked spray and black puss.

It started with an itch, the rampant disease.

Buboes burst, skin dissolved, and graves were dug. Outside help refused for fear of infection, Dwindling people.

Word spread beyond borders,

Salvation came airborne,

Hope sprung forth…

Until the bombs were dropped.

Genocide poisoning the well!