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a thorn caressing the walls of their tongues
a caveat dressed in blood
maiming their tongues
with rods painted in colours of fire
from bravery,their songs paid homeage
to graveyards
whistled serenades for the bones
and elegies painted in white
guarded the cemetry
merchants of truth
sell our minds like a common harvest of rain
they merry, we querry
the dusty paths that honoured the blood pots
of toppled grasses
merchants of truth
the parents of veiled words
lying under colours like polythene
induce the ripening of words
in mushroom tones, a speedy decay
truth merchants
have sold the truth to polygamy
the yields raise our pulse
What’s left of the truth?
But crump waiting to be fed to the hapless
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