Our mouth customs has gone beyond our control,
Every time we talk about Turkana nation,
We always goof to label it a den of poverty,
By failing to see the vice of human backlogs,
That has worked most to stultify human hopes
Down to a false pale that Turkana nation is all poverty.

A nation that arms its daughters and sons in entirety
With the vogue models of AK 47 and 74’S
Enjoying money worthiness to a whopping!
Media with which they brutally rustle neighbours’ cows
Leaving them in forlorn cry like lame childlings
Such nation can’t be labeled a poverty reference.

Nation in which a naked elder in a loincloths is matchlessly animal rich
Owning hundreds of Carmel and goats, sheep and cows in similar fold,
Enjoying pure *** in marriage with virgins, whose breast are sharply pointed,
Marrying them in pairs out of polygamous morality in the chriso-paganity,
Where each man is a king and each woman an akuju; Turkana goddess of beauty,
All youth confident of animal wealth, then it is total sphinx of no secrete
To label Turkana nation a land that is all about poverty.

Land of sand tunes fit for use in modern architecture,
Replete with deadly desert scorpions, watchdog against women stealer,
Diamonds and gold form its hills of Lapur and Pelekechi,
Its underground waters huge than masses of Indian Ocean,
Lake Turkana being deeper that Lake Tanganyika, full of Fish like helluva,
In the sunshine that generates solar power in fathomless units
Desert snakes jumping here and there in chase of Locusts,
On the seashores at Todanyang and Loewarang towns,
Antelopes there are foolish that they don’t fear dogs
While chicken are condemned to be wild birds
For the Turkana don’t eat birds lest they degrade in dignity
Foolishly calling such land to be example of poverty
Is like putting your economics education in higgledy-piggledy pose.

A turkana woman is a beautiful woman, indeed a paragon of femininity
Slender and narrow at the waist with a humongous bossom,
Her legs are sizeable and long, forming a curve between her thighs,
Her neck stands straight on her thorax, forming a shape of flag post,
Warm on touch and sensuous on each kiss, with her eyes full of compassion,
Her arms strong on each assignement, hence her gun management power,
She screams on an ****** like the swine in a slaughter house,
Sending up the chills of gusto up the spine of the *** partner,
When in the apical realm of love at scenic Eliye Spring,
How can a nation full of such wonderfully virtuous daughters
Be declared in foolishness benchmark of poverty and human despair?

Walk tall Turkana, stand and walk tall, for you are the ****** of Africa
Your oil wells are gift of providence; it will put green foods on your table,
Walk to school and learn anything, learn the languages of the world,
Through which you will caution the lazy talkers of this country,
For them have labeled you as black sheep of the Kenyan family
When it’s their folly and vicious governance
That has betrayed Turkana towards its destiny.

if kisses are green and bodies verdantly exact in sameness
   let my hands be two birds glorifying the waters in the slopes
of fingers,  
  
if song is but undeath and the rise and fall the unalphabeted siren
      of the morning,

       such loose wind swaying over her silently as loincloths
   over blackred roses,  easily it breaks like a finger of a shadow
     whirling gently through opened windows in candid moonlight

but  if surely does your going signal the dawn but no birds
   wreathing the trees and no gardens inherit garlands,

  what shall then be two birds over waters but a single stride
      of sorrow and whose temporal flights disdain centrifugal faces
of waiting; measured, coveted, photographed, love everywhere fading
    where silence maims sound and music topples over the moon
       the stars  the sleepless nights and  the stellified dust of the world
             that must be opened again

Discarded loincloths adorn the table.
No one pays attention to the spilled milk,
catching the fever, we turn the other cheek
our hastiness turn upbeat over prevalence

it is hard; juxtapositions lie at your fingertips.

where does a flower
   keep its flaring memories?

in the petals, loincloths
   light-skinned in
   resplendent ephemera.

or in the thorns,
    prickly music of
    an esoteric cadence
    without falter,
    blood upon blood,
    flesh upon flesh,
    ash upon ash
    tumult of pains and the eclipse
    of a broken archipelago.

in the stem,
    bending to the oppressing wind.
    like your body upon my body
    swaying to the sound that no
    ears hear underneath rivers
    and the sorry tale of
    weightless drowning no eyes
    ever witnessed.

in the hands of the wind
   is where they are kept.
   moonlight shines its
   perihelion mouth across borders
   of untouched reminiscences
   and we have called them names
   and similar aches as rain
   dropped like a net of sadness
   or the debris of a ruin,
   betrayed by the thirst of our
   lips when we longed for the sea
   and failed to heed its
   cerulean calling.

The dusty lobes of your eyes,
Dark news of a king's wellness they carry
To the masses,
On raven wings of a light tongue

Broken, the spirits of her citizens,
Surrounded by enemies of blades and chariots,
Camping under the hollow moon

And before dawn,
Shall they throw rocks of flames,
To the sky walls of this city,
Commencing, the day between jaws of desolation

Mothers shall run,
Hidden,  faces of their cherished daughters,
Behind loincloths of their ashes
And sons, besides their fathers,
The rising spirits of the dead

How easy it is to set fire on a pine forest?
So easy it is, to seize a city whose king lies,
Covered in wool and animal skin,
Fighting the inviting winter of an after world

The place where time defines no history
But an abyss of oblivion
A throne without a heir,
And a name,  to vanish like smoke