A shroud descends—not night, but something darker—
No moon dares pierce this pitch that grips my country.
The air itself wears iron, thick with absence,
As shadows gnaw the edges of the light.

They marched, their voices hymns, their hands upturned—
Palms cradling sparks of hope, now drowned in crimson.
Flags fluttered, fragile as moth-winged prayers,
Before the void roared, teeth bared and gleaming.

Night, that thief, slipped through the cracks of reason,
Plucked stars from skies and stuffed them in its pockets.
The soil, once rich with yam and cassava dreams,
Now bloats with the metallic stench of slaughter.

I count the dead in raindrops—each one names
A mother’s wail, a father’s hollowed stare.
The earth, a drunkard, staggers under weight,
Gulping down the wine of butchered innocence.

My tears carve rivers where the roads once ran,
Yet no current cleanses this fevered scorching.
The question rots, unburied, in the square:
When did our anthem become a funeral dirge?

Does your hunger, O land, demand such feasts—
Flesh of your children served on platters of silence?
Will you birth only ghosts from your womb now,
Their whispers threading through the marketplace?

The night still breathes. It lingers, unrepentant.
But dawn is a stubborn seed—we’ll dig for it
With bloodied hands and shattered fingernails,
Until the soil remembers how to bloom.

Love is a mystery, divine and untamed—
God’s own breath woven into our veins.
A gift to humanity, pure and unearned,
A flame first kindled before the world turned.
Christ, the embodiment of that sacred cry,
A love beyond language, beyond why.

Yet our world parches, a desert undone,
Craving love’s rain, yet choking the sun.
We preach it in sermons, we hashtag its name,
But does our love rise from the altar of self?
Or is it a mirror, reflecting our gain—
A transactional echo, a hollow refrain?

Is it selfless—a seed cast in stone?
Or self-seeking, a harvest we own?
Does it bleed when it gives? Does it kneel when it serves?

Love is the whisper that silences storms,
A river, not rushed, as eternity forms.
It drowns every ledger, erases the score,
Builds bridges from ruins, knocks on locked doors.
Love is the mason, the mortar, the beam,
Planting gardens in cracks where the broken dare dream.

Love is the compass that points beyond me,
A lighthouse unswayed by the roar of the sea.
It carries the cry of the silenced, the scarred,
Sees strength in the fragile, and sings to the marred.

So let us love boldly, with hands open wide—
Not in theory, but dirt-on-our-skins sacrifice.
For love, though divine, walks barefoot and low,
A mystery we live, not a sermon we show.

Love is the universe’s oldest mystery—
God is love—its origin, its flame.
A gift to humanity, poured freely,
He loved us first, unasked, unclaimed.
Christ, the embodiment, the scarred and the slain,
A love so fierce it fractures mortal speech—
A force beyond alphabets, beyond chains.

Yet our world thirsts, cracked earth begging for rain,
Hungering for love in each breath we take.
We preach it in pulpits, hashtag its name,
Profess it in vows we struggle to make.
But when the spotlight fades and the crowds disperse—
Is our love a river… or a rehearsed verse?

Is it selfless—a sun that burns without need?
Or self-seeking—a harvest of greed?
Does it kneel in the dirt, wash the grime from sore feet,
Or tally the cost of the wounds it repeats?

Love is a language that needs no translation:
Kindness its dialect, patience its pause.
It drowns every ledger, builds a new foundation,
Forgives like the tide erasing old flaws.
Love lifts the fallen, mends fractures unseen,
Seeks not its own, but lets others bloom—
A gardener of hearts in a world grown too keen.

So let us love louder than dogma or creed,
Not in grand gestures, but quiet, raw deeds.
For love is the echo of God’s own heartbeat—
A mystery we live, not just repeat.

Life is a gift, wrapped in mystery,
A journey begun without my voice,
No hand to choose my family tree,
No say in the land of my birth—yet I rejoice.

Life is a teacher, both stern and wise,
Loved by the masses, grasped by the few.
Its lessons are etched in sunlit skies,
And whispered in storms that reshape the view.

Life is a storybook, boundless and vast,
Each dawn a blank page, each dusk a refrain.
I am the author, the quill held fast,
Inking my joys, my losses, my pain.

Life is a river, winding and free,
Carving its path through valleys and stone.
It bends with time, yet flows to the sea—
A journey of purpose, uniquely my own.

Life is a canvas, stretched and bare,
I paint with the hues of hope and despair.
Each stroke a memory, each shade a dream,
A tapestry woven with every gleam.

Life is a garden, both wild and tame,
Where seeds of choice sprout roots of fate.
I till the soil, though thorns may claim,
And harvest the fruits of love and hate.

Life is a symphony, rising and falling,
A melody woven through laughter and tears.
Each note a moment, each chord a calling—
A song that evolves through the passing years.

So let us live with hearts unbound,
With courage that blazes through the darkest night.
Though shadows may linger, and doubts surround,
We’ll chase the dawn, embracing the light.

For life is lived in forward stride,
Yet understood when we pause and reflect.
A journey of wonder, with time as our guide—
A gift to cherish, a tale to perfect.