(Poem originally published on ArtHut via http://arthut.com.ng/viewBlog?hid=t7ih33ihs5gn545e869t&data=insight)
I'm not here to sing lullabies that sweetens the endolymph,
But to echo threnodies of dirges to the dead
Who lay like dusty books on the dead-shelf.
I'm not here to tell you the tales of my village,
But to retell the told stories you know not of this age.
I] Tales Of Hunger
Shall we journey to my hometown?
A land so blessed her people feed on scrubs.
Here – hunger holds a daily concert –
With escalating death rate caused by empty stomachs.
Our dried tongues still peruse the silent breath of the wind,
With wishes, her air fills our tummy that now palaces worms.
From childhood have we learned the lyrics of hunger,
Her music is the sound produced by our breathing.
II] Dead Men Walking
Journey with me to the street of strict men,
Let's visit the town of boys whose dreams were
Washed off by water that flows through a woman's thigh.
For while we search for tomorrow in the eyes of Mother,
All we meet is disappointments of father and his empty barrows.
We've lost all memories of childhood purgatory,
Our bones lay fragile as we crush upon rocks of infirmity.
For when justice goes topsy-turvy into the dust,
Discarded is our being into the pools of blood.
III] No Home In This Land
This story is just a prologue to our untold tale,
These words are the past we live today;
For while our youth are dying to leave,
The old have left without living.
There is no home in this land,
There is no lullaby to sing to a child,
Just echoes of maladies;
Melodies of threnodies
That echoes within the depth of our mind.
