Gather your woeful garments
Move towards the sick slain valley
With a blank eyes of hot tears
List out the corrupted coroneted woes
Table the names of those massacred
by Bokos, filter the good from the bad
until you bleed.
Write down the money
stolen by the leaders unwrap the bubbles
of ill-luck among the abandoned youths
Remember those naked children disappointed
By their fathers before their own very sweet eyes
Dance the warship silence of dead soldiers laid
Hopelessly at the battle field with no weapon.
Forget who you are in the future of the past,
Birth grief through your watery stressed nose.
Silence is not empty but has many answers
Carve your tears in the pages of the history
Till the land of embezzlement in the north
Expose the cry at the south with the ripped sky
Then move to the east with scream of Biafra
The west must be given enough meat to dine.
Look not for peace that shot at the stream
Say pain, say tears, say sorrow; scatter the ground
With an empty threat within the Eagle’s flight,
Even if the abundance of your country remains
In the cleavages of your immoral voice, cry loud.
Say what matters, what hurts, what kills
What dies, what never stay like Ogbanje.
The sky holds more, the earth need more;
More than the bottled dreams, grandpa made us fools,
Let your ailment starts like a night dance,
You are your own tomorrow, our eyes to see.
Before the day our lids shall close from a
Crack of a concrete land buried yet living.
Gather yourself and mourn without emotions,
We will no longer look for the hand that held
the sword yesterday, roars louder than the lion;
We’ll uphold the fragment of your sparkled tears.
John Chzoba Vincent