Our nation potted in
The trough of the litttle desert pond cracked
In the ravaging sun, its treasury is full of
Gold and contracts yet the poor have no baskets to harvest
The fallow plots of wheat while the wealthy seat
Over round tables for a cowrie shell more
In roudy toasts to their iron greed.
Our nation drank alot of wine from the
Vultures pot of greed, ever since the masses have
Come to the parliament gates, a colony of
Those with dry tongues and bellies
On a long trek to the house of coins and omelettes
As the grumbling Almajiris* like killing predators
Till out the barns of ants in search of gathered grains
Under dark clouds of the nation's strayed bullets.
As the roofing sheets gave a scorn to the thatched roofs,
The judge strutter to the courtroom with a
Wig on his fattened head for another
Justice miscarriage
measured
On the cheap electors as their blue blood
Scamper into cheap bone marrows
The
migrating antelopes are chasing the winds.
As the red-rains of anguish falls on the widowers'
Leaking rafters, the gluttonous bats
In olympian race perch on the healing magma of the hills.
The poor will remain hungry as earth has
No rains to grow their crops in the winter
Time when the ruinous storm blows death
Makes a harvest of the weak people of irony
,
The dance of the weak are like the tropical trees reciting the
whirrings of the mocking winds-
The shrieking cries heard yet a sheriff
Pass by amidst the injustice and corruption
in sharp bending
By the wealthy carrying about their trinket boxes.
Audible sounds of suffering splash on the streets,
The labour union grouse against the inflated prices
Of petrol and food items, as the giant elephants
Refuse to trunk water to the nation,
The people limp to the slaughter houses
Collecting the broken bones of hornless rams
And every step they take is toward the dawn
,
Oh night has trailed the thin anchors of the ship!
The thunderous hooves of the suppressed masses in protest
Tore the tarmacs as the
lamentation
Of their empty bowels heralds that the weak
Are in a salvaging call to the political
Prelates with handful of sands
Mourning their nation carried by the desert storms.
___
Francis Annagu is a Nigerian poet. His poetry x-ray the social and political ills in the society, especially Africa that has suffered many a sandstorm of corruption and injustice. His poems have been published in Potomac Review, Ayiba Magazine, Kalahari Review, The Poet Community, Lunaris Review, Galway Review, The Commonline Journal, Crannog Magazine, Sunflower Collective and many others. His first poetry book, RAIN UPON US, will be published soon.
The trough of the litttle desert pond cracked
In the ravaging sun, its treasury is full of
Gold and contracts yet the poor have no baskets to harvest
The fallow plots of wheat while the wealthy seat
Over round tables for a cowrie shell more
In roudy toasts to their iron greed.
Our nation drank alot of wine from the
Vultures pot of greed, ever since the masses have
Come to the parliament gates, a colony of
Those with dry tongues and bellies
On a long trek to the house of coins and omelettes
As the grumbling Almajiris* like killing predators
Till out the barns of ants in search of gathered grains
Under dark clouds of the nation's strayed bullets.
As the roofing sheets gave a scorn to the thatched roofs,
The judge strutter to the courtroom with a
Wig on his fattened head for another
Justice miscarriage
measured
On the cheap electors as their blue blood
Scamper into cheap bone marrows
The
migrating antelopes are chasing the winds.
As the red-rains of anguish falls on the widowers'
Leaking rafters, the gluttonous bats
In olympian race perch on the healing magma of the hills.
The poor will remain hungry as earth has
No rains to grow their crops in the winter
Time when the ruinous storm blows death
Makes a harvest of the weak people of irony
,
The dance of the weak are like the tropical trees reciting the
whirrings of the mocking winds-
The shrieking cries heard yet a sheriff
Pass by amidst the injustice and corruption
in sharp bending
By the wealthy carrying about their trinket boxes.
Audible sounds of suffering splash on the streets,
The labour union grouse against the inflated prices
Of petrol and food items, as the giant elephants
Refuse to trunk water to the nation,
The people limp to the slaughter houses
Collecting the broken bones of hornless rams
And every step they take is toward the dawn
,
Oh night has trailed the thin anchors of the ship!
The thunderous hooves of the suppressed masses in protest
Tore the tarmacs as the
lamentation
Of their empty bowels heralds that the weak
Are in a salvaging call to the political
Prelates with handful of sands
Mourning their nation carried by the desert storms.
___
Francis Annagu is a Nigerian poet. His poetry x-ray the social and political ills in the society, especially Africa that has suffered many a sandstorm of corruption and injustice. His poems have been published in Potomac Review, Ayiba Magazine, Kalahari Review, The Poet Community, Lunaris Review, Galway Review, The Commonline Journal, Crannog Magazine, Sunflower Collective and many others. His first poetry book, RAIN UPON US, will be published soon.
