They were no soldiers to point guns
Our buttocks were saved from their crunching boots
The khaki men were inside the hole of their destiny
It was of a bitter pleasure
To pronounce our maimed height:
Breed of permanent mourners.
Resonate the appeal for death
Along an unending boulevard:
Shackles of sacked schemes
They were no end to witnesses
Cobwebs of corruption, combusting in cupboard communities
Swarm of vagrants counting meal with spoons
Such were the reign!
Crowd in public places
Squelched on pale hope
From swamp of blood.
Amidst bulging pockets, swollen tummies,
Grasses of flirting cars.
But are we made?
Written by: Justice Mmahi
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.