Must we at the temple’s hill
Hear the preacher’s talk
“You must each other kill
And even their children you must stalk!”
Shan’t the preachments from heaven
Bring peace and heal our clobbered hearts
Without any mixture of leaven,
Shielding us from poisonous darts?
Stop making us vassals of hate!
Cease thundering from your tall pedestal
Bitter words from your palate.
We want to love, before it’s late!
Must this flood never cease,
Before our land is wasted?
meet the poet: Jonathan Ezeanochie
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.