Despair drips
from my lips,
don't kiss me

My sorrowful soul
awaits death’s kiss,
don’t miss me

Why do you deserve what you have
And more?

While the man outside begging
For his life
Deserves what he has
And nothing more

Are you tired of killing us
Here I stand **** me
Are you tired of maltreating me
Here I stand devour me

How will you reap my flesh
How will you cook my bones
How will you drink my blood
How will you stop my tears

Here I stand presenting the cup of agony
The fountain of happiness flows as I revolt
Use my gift and fetch the drink for thyself
How sweet is the water I give

How bitter is my flesh to you ?
Did you eat my soul ?
Oh no! my soul is a brook of undying peace
Wallowing as daffodils adorned with loving gem

Exchanging hands of friendship beyond earthly rivals
Beyond your evilness and injustice
Your heart is oppressed by our thoughts
Wouldn't you drink our blood again

Wouldn't you **** us again?
Are you tired of your corrupt thoughts?
I thought you prefer to live in the dark
What makes love resides in your heart

Written by
Martin Ijir

Don’t come to the cemetery at night Peter Xalxo would say
If you are so inclined make your visits in the day
For often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
And they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
Why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
When the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
And at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
But come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
For I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
The tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect some impact
They colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
To my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
Bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
When there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
This ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
Run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
Some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
He was such a good man and a great friend to miss
But God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.

Where am I going?
Do you know?

If you do
can you tell me?
Because it all looks
Foggy from here

The little bird no longer flies
she sits and mourns her broken wings
her tattered feathers, faded now
will never feel the breath of spring.

She sings now for the life she lost
a silent sweet lament
such sad refrain, if heard aloud
would break the hearts of men

The little bird falls quiet now,
Her end is drawing near
and not a single soul will know
that she was ever here.