Dear Nigeria,
Let me, at this juncture, pose my pen on the marble of innocent souls.
Let me, at this point, peruse the world of broken bones and listen, attentively, to the melody of lyre.
This poem is an elixir.
It has no beginning; it does chant the panacea to global pandemonium.
This poem is a remnant of Borno's corpes—
And that of other bleeding States.
This poem has no ending.
Its components were chosen from the archives of history.
This poem speaks of the civil war and the state of the nation, every now and then.
It does enunciate the heartfelt of the stars' constellation.
This poem is pregnant and, it won't go on maternity leave until the dogs in the neighbourhood stopped barking in my compound.
Until peace is restored on the entirety of the soil of our fatherland.
Until all roads are— without fear, anxiety and instability— usable by our travellers...
Until then, this poem will speak zillions to a layman.