I cry very hard every night
For the land of my forefathers.
Once called Africa's golden child
Woe unto them that hurt you.
Like a child gunned down,
Somebody shot you in your prime
Your soul cries out for help
Purging the nectar of hate
Joggling the sack of opportunity
Looted out by pseudo politicians
And devoured by corrupt wolves
Who talks as revolutionaries
Paid with very huge salaries.
Hungry kids with sad eyes
Eyes stained with tears line
tears lines that know no tears.
Dried lips and Weak bodies
That can't stand neither walk.
Even if the did, where will they walk?
For the roads are now no more,
Washed away by corrupt erosion.
Ills of yesterday, void of compassion.
Look beyond everything, see the poor
Stuck in the black muddy ponds.
Those real victims of poverty, poverty
Tattooed on the souls of the poor.
Poor people who went en-mass
To the ballot boxes and voted,
For a change that's yet to come.
Waiting From the mangrove swamps
Squinting from the shines of the elite,
Dwarfed by brand new mansions
Gift from the country giant to himself. I'll pray every day for the masses,
Wishing the real Massiah would come.


IB-Poetry©
26/11/2018