Matchstick

I was in a remote jungle and this shrewd Lumberjack
Who brought me to this matchwood factory?
These heartless machines break us into splinters.
I was happy when they put a black paste on my head and I thought it's a crown.
We brothers assorted in boxes and sent to the market.
Unfortunately this box of matches bought a drunkard.
And every five minutes he strikes us and lit a cigarette.
We all burned within a day and our ashes cursed the Lumberjack.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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