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OUR LORD IS FRANCOPHONE (a poem by Omotayo Awoyemi)

Our lord on the gold seat, with his sceptre,
High up the rock; blessed among rocks,
In the shadows of Aso the brave,
Upon the land of yams, once of the Bwari’s.

Our lord is a don; sun of a gun,
Swept our love and prints with spines of fronds
Into a bottle of 'change'; a fiction that
Our gunned old men wrote with wax, in the sun.

Our lord is not heartless, but
A withered heart of gold's as good as none,
Our lord's skin has life and breathes, but
What good is cuticle that is numb?

Our lord has ears, and he hears
Whispers of the bourgeoisie in his right, and
Wailings of the abject masses in his left;
Whose stapes is Apollyon.

Our lord can speak; but to few directly,
The francophones; Tu Parles francais?
To the anglophones, he's translated
By ‘Layi Moo-hammed, heralds of verisimilitude.

Author: Omotayo Awoyemi

Omotayo Awoyemi is a Nigerian word weaver with global vision, a medical student at Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, Nigeria. He was living solely in his ‘world of science’ until sometimes in 2012, when he bumped accidentally into poetry. Since then, poetry kept welling up in him like an uncontrollable chain of nuclear reaction. The future is clear to him as he is set out to earn a Nobel prize for literature, not minding his science oriented background and health-based life.

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