Where did all the oranges go?  
The sweet and ripe, their golden glow,  
Now scarce as dew on desert sand,  
In a world that’s lost its careful hand.  

The maidens once in gentle bloom,  
Now shed their petals all too soon.  
The blush of innocence, so rare,  
Dissolves like mist into the air.  

No shame remains, no modest blush,  
The world now moves in careless rush,  
And men, once bold with strength to lead,  
Now chase the easy path of greed.  

Lazy hands that reach for gain,  
Without the toil, without the strain.  
They flock like birds to fleeting fruit,  
While roots are bare, the ground’s gone mute.  

Where are the keepers of the land?  
The ones who till with steady hand?  
Who cherish harvest slow to grow,  
And reap what careful hearts bestow?  

But time will turn, as seasons show,  
And seeds will find their way to sow.  
Though oranges may seem so few,  
In time, the trees will bear anew.  

And when they bloom, may we recall,  
The price of letting virtues fall.  
For what is sweet is not so free,  
It’s earned in love, in dignity.

In the land of Igbo, where stories unfold,
A soul bears burdens, both young and old.
"Why always me?" the heart does plea,
In the rhythm of life, a poignant decree.

Beneath the palm trees, where breezes sigh,
Ancestral echoes in the crimson sky.
Through the hustle of markets, tales untold,
The query persists, a narrative bold.

Is it the weight of history, a heavy chain?
Or destiny's dance in the pouring rain?
In the dance of kola, where traditions blend,
"Why always me?"—a query to comprehend.

Through the bustling cities and village lanes,
Resides a spirit resilient, amidst life's strains.
In the echoes of language, a melodic plea,
"Why always me?" in the Igbo symphony.

Yet, amid challenges, strength does rise,
In the tapestry of struggles, where hope lies.
Through the echoes of ancestors, resilience we see,
A vibrant spirit asking, "Why always me?"