Let thunder hold her roar
Like the muteness of a potter’s field.
The cry of the bugle that woke us to war
Is dumb and none can rise
To ring the bell at the tower.
Who shall hear?
Now, this harvest of bloodshed
Shall serve vultures
With a feast of massacred bodies,
Butchered by artilleries
For the crest of pride, a vast empire and
An abundance of slave generations.
Our commercial centers
Host billions of scattered bones,
Our villages are quieter than graveyards.
But where is the courage that patted
The king on his shoulders?
He’s in exile,
hile we’re here, breathless.
Written by: Eyo Justice Ellis
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.