The curdling cries of her ages,
should be coming to an end.
We feel her long awaited victory,
in these recent sounds of hope.
From images of her bleeding history.
She was that erstwhile beauty model,
Who up until one morning,
Was a pretty precious damsel,
She bled from the thrust of chaos.
In the pain of her political haemorrhage.
She sat ashore her sunny lands,
stripped to the sneer of her former nobles.
The flies on her wrinkled posture
sang the songs of budding doom.
The milk of her generous tap,
was fermented to the spoil.
But though she lost the glory, her faith is still alive,
speaking in the hearts of her children,
to save her from the brink.
She looks on us and smiles,
for her redemption is neigh.
The pain of her counting decades
begs to seize from our clime,
If only the fists of sentiments can rest,
in the rugged grave of history.
Love should reign and peace to stay,
in our hearts that beats as one.
To see mother risen,
should be the glorious hope of all.
Written by: Joseph C. Ugwuanyi