Our long awaited table
refuses to turn,
In starvation we rejoice
in impoverishment we smile,
smile our tinted teeth-a slogan for poverty.
Hope, no longer in our anthem
Children,recite dirge
as their pledge.
Lullaby,no longer a sleeping
tablet to our filthy foetus.
Embryos, roll out tears
in protest as umbilical cord
turns desert.
Yet table refuses to turn,
yesterday we hoped-
till our hopes sang songs of
hopelessness with a cruise tune of frustration……..
as sleeps rules our eyes.
When will the table turn?
Our hopes lie in tomorrow upon tomorrows till tomorrow
lives in exile……..
![TILL TOMOROW DIES by Ololade Akinlabi](https://i0.wp.com/poetry.wrr.ng/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/TILL-TOMOROW-DIES-by-Ololade-Akinlabi.jpg?resize=750%2C500)
When will the table turn? When we “turn” it. Wood hasn’t a mind of it’s own; it cannot even be imbued with magic. We’ll have to do the “turning”.