When i pull the wind closer
Lay it naked before my keen eyes
Searching for stanzas hidden
They call me mad

When i look at the blood
Fluttering from my veins
Soaking me to my soles
And i laugh
Like a triumphant warrior
They call me crazy

My nights i have slaughtered
For the gods of inspiration
And i wondered at night
Like a broken lion
They call me insane

But i am a poet on a quest
To best lay my tent
Where generation
Shall peacefully rest

Into this word i came
at midnight
Darkness rested on my skull
held me by my sleeves
and led to its labyrinthe

Puzzled
I could'nt tell which path
was plodded by the chastes
nor that which led
to the belching hell

The hunters with lamps
to lead me through
and gourd of wine
to quench my taste
were deep asleep

I, the kid who came
at midnight
when the world was lost
in the song of thier snore

When our names were smeared
with dust and kicked
****-naked into the streets
tramped upon, squashed by dancers
revelling on the song of our shame
We take all in saintly fate

Poverty has diverse chairs
all which are glued
to the heart of hell
upon which we sit
pipped with jears
Our pains for the tithe
we never paid
untill our lives are almost spent

We aren't bearing with us
our sack of shame to the land
were we shall endly rest
Laugh not out of you breathe
we shall mend our broken past
and pick up the moon we left behind

Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?

Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?

Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood

Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?