Ik kuddi jida naa mohabbat,
Gum hai. Gum hai, gum hai...

Saad muraadi, soni phabbat,
Guum hai.

Suurat ousdi pariyaan vargi
Seerat di o mariam lagdi,
Hasdi hai taa phul jharade ne
Turdi hai taa gazal hai lagdi.
Lamm-salammi, saru(Saro) de kad di
Umar aje hai marke agg di,
Par naina di gal samajhdi.
Ik kuddi jida naa mohabbat,
Gum hai. Gum hai, gum hai...

Goummeyaan janam janam han hoye
Par lagda jyon kal di gal hai.
Yun lagda jyon ajj di gal hai,
Yun lagda jyon *** di gal hai.
Huney taan mere kol khaddi si
Huney taan mere kol nahi hai
Eh ki chhal hai, eh ki phatkan
Soch meri hairan baddi hai.
Nazar meri har aande jaande
Chehre da rang phol rahi hai,
Ous kuddi nu tol rahi hai.

Saanjh dhale baazaaran de jad,
Moddaan te khushbu ugdi hai.
Vehal, thakaavat, bechaini jad,
Chau raaheyaan te aa juddadi hai.
Rauley lippi tanhai vich
Os kuddi di thudd khaandi hai.
Os kuddi di thudd disdi hai.
Har chhin mennu inyon lagda hai,
Har din mennu inyon lagda hai.
Judde jashan ne bheeddaan vichon,
Juddi mahak de jhurmat vichon,
O mennu aawaaz davegi,
Men ohnu pehchaan lavaanga
O mennu pehchaan lavegi.
Par es raule de hadd vichon
Koi mennu aawaaz na denda
Koi vi mere vall na vehnda.

Par khaure kyun tapala lagda,
Par khaure kyun jhaulla painda,
Har din har ik bheedd juddi chon,
But ohda jyun langh ke jaanda.
Par mennu hi nazar na aunda.
Goum gaya maen os kuddi de
Chehre de vich goummeya rehnda,
Os de gham vich ghullda rehnda,
Os de gham vich khurda jaanda!
Os kuddi nu meri saun hai,
Os kuddi nu apni saun hai,

Os kuddi nu sab di saun hai.
Os kuddi nu jag di saun hai,
Os kuddi nu rab di saun hai,
Je kithe paddhdi sundi hove,
Jyundi ya o mar rahi hove
Ik vaari aa ke mil jaave
Vafa meri nu daag na laave
Nahin taan methon jiya na jaanda
Geet koi likheya na janda!

Ik kudi jida naa muhabat.
Goum hai.
Saad muradi sohni phabbat
Goum hai.

Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle

Mula sa higanteng alpombrang balot
Bumuhos ang walong henerasyon halos
Ng karit, palay, tagtuyot, unos
Martilyo, pako, pagpapakaputa sa utos!
Aba, hindi pangako ng sistema ang presensya ni Hesus!

Sa madilim na purgatoryo ng impiyerno at kalangitan,
Sa mahiwagang pagitan ng lunsuran at lansangan
Nagka-prusisyon ang dibinong Toledong bayan
‘Pagkat naipasalangit na
Ang Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka/
Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo/
Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata
Na sumiil sa banal na pook ng Toledo.

Pitu-pituhan ang naging palitan
Sa pagbuhat sa bangkay ni Rodiano Abduhan.
“Dito ako sa ulo.” “Pasmado ka ba? Larga na!”
Padulas-dulas ang kapit, sumisilip na ang paa
At sa bawat yapak, bumuhos ang patak
Ng dugong pesante sa sagradong Toledong lupa.

Rodiano Abduhan, mas kilala bilang Tatay Godong
Manggagamot, tagalunas ng salot, kampon ng Diyos,
Ika ng iilang nagpatingin sa mahiwagang tatang,
Pero manyak, magnanakaw, aswang, mangkukulam
Kamo ng nagmula sa abang Toledong bayan.
‘Pagkat ang pugad niya’y sa kanayunan, sa kalaliman, sa kaibuturan,
Ng mailap na lansangang ng Diyos tinalikuran.

Kaya nang ang taumbaya’y nakabatid
Na lumubha ang sakit ng pamangking si Adring,
At na natagpuang bukbukin ang bangkay ni Celine,
Kaniya-kaniyang satsat, sitsit, at hirit
Ang kumapal sa amihan ng Toledong hangin.

“Mangkukulam! Heto yung bumati sa Adring kong pamangkin!”
Kaya ng taumbaya’y binatikos at siniraan sa lihim
Sa walwal o gimik, pagkalaklak ng gin.

“Berbalang! ‘Di ka umawat hanggang naubos ang dugo!”
Kaya’t nang-imprinta ang madla ng mga galos abot sa buto
Tatak Cebu! Tatak lungsod ng Toledo!

“Aswang! Luwal ng putang nakunan!”
Kung kaya’t naisama rin ang anak ni Abduhan
Sa kawawang listahan ng mapapaslang.

Biro mo! Ang manggagawa ng himala
Natamaan ng sumbi ng masaklap na realidad!
Ay, hindi makaliligtas ang dukha
Sa kamandag ng pader ng matayog na siyudad!

Pero nang maabot ang mapanglaw na kremahan,
Ang mailap na lubid ng buhay at kamatayan
Ni Rodiano Abduhan, aswang at mangkukulam,
Ng dugong maliliwat ay tuluyan siyang naubusan.
Maputla niyang balat, sa abong langit ay umagpang.
Inaakit ng lagay na hamak na sa wakas ay tumahan.
Pero nang maunawaan niya na sa kaniyang kamatayan
Mapupuksa ang kasarinlan at kalayaan,
‘Pagkat siya ang sisidlan ng dugong maglilinang,
Kampeon ng kanayunan, hari ng himagsikan,

Nasapian ni Lazaro.
Nabuhay.
Natauhan.

Magsasaka, mangingisda, labandera, gerilya.
Artista, mayora, tindera, tsismosa.
Karpintero, ****, kutsero, kaminero.
Abugado, inhinyero, piloto, maestro.
Ninais ng lungsod ang pagsapit ng mundo
Sa mahinhing mundo ng mga diwata’t engkanto.
Oo lang nang oo, bawal mangontrabida,
Kaya kung gusto nila ng Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka
Ano pang magagawa kundi patabain ang mataba?

So natunaw ang pintura
Ng nagbabalat na ngang dingding
Nabawian ng Sol at Luna
Ang kalangitang sadya nang makulimlim
Ang basang semento ay nauhaw
At naging nagbabantang lamig.

Mula sa naagnas na kabaong sa hukay lumaya
Ang mga magsasaka, mangingisda, labandera, gerilya
Ang mga Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata.
Mula sa abo sa loob ng saro nagka-anyo
Ang mga karpintero, ****, kutsero, kaminero
Ang mga Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo.

Tsaka humayo’t bumulong kay Abduhan
Nang siya’y mailatag sa loob ng makinarya.
Tsaka niya nagunita ang anak at asawa
Nombrado na atang manananggal at tiyanak.
At ang bawat katiting na patak ng dugo
Na hinayaan niyang umagos, bumuhos, tumulo
Sa lupang Toledo, lupa ng berdugo’t demonyo.
Doon niya nabatid kung saan totoong nagmula
Ang mga Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka,
Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo,
Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata.

At doon nabuhay ang Santelmo ng Toledo;
Nang umalpas mula sa crematorium si Rodiano Abduhan,
‘Di na mas hahaba ang buhok, at nakatatak ang pangalan
Sa kaniyang mga galos at sugat, habang
Noo’y banig ang balot, ngayo’y apoy na bagong silang.
At nang nadaanan niya ang mga balintataw
Ng mayayamang poong siya mismo ang nakapukaw,
Nabatid niya kung bakit kailangan ng Toledo ng isang halimaw.

Kan akì pa ako igwa akong ayam
Mahilig siya magkawat sa mga masetásan
Pipoy an saiyang pangáran
Daí mo nungka lingawán
Ta daí ito nagsisimbag
Pag bakô niyang pangáran
Saròng aldáw dinara ko siya sa umá
Mahihiling mo sa saiyang matá
An káugmaháng dinara
Dalágan igdi, dalágan dumán
Sigeng dulág pag nagrarani sa damúlag
Nagpundo lang kan
Nakahiling nin kulagbáw
Sa irárom kan hablondawani

Sana árog lang kaini kadali
an áro-aldáw kan buhay

Nakatukaw ako kaibahan si pipoy
Habang kinakakan kan umá
An palubog na saldang
Asin saro-sarong dinadaklag
kan bulan an bitoon sa langit
Saròng aldáw nanaman an nakalipas
Saròng rebolusyon pa kan kinaban
Makakaabot man kita
sa satuyang padudumanan
Pasarosaro sanang lakdang
Arog ngani kan pirming sabi ni pipoy
"Aw!! aww!!"

—𝐔𝐦𝐚, a Bikol poetry.
About how I and my dog travel the world one step at a time.

Saro-sarong nawará' 
an gámit sa palígid ko 
nagpu'ón sa símpleng kaláyo, 
an asó nagbabáyle sa la'óg kan kuárto
mántang ako nakatúkaw
asín hinahapót an sadíri -
"Hanggang sáin mákakáabót an abó pag naglupád pasíring saímo?"

An katanglikásan kan háwak ko,
an pagtunínong kan ísip ko,
asin an pagbása mo kainíng namamátian ko - 
Iyó an pagtángis kan kublít ko, 
an padágos na pagtúnaw kan gabós sakó' 
an padágos na ngírit kan demónio 
na nagtatágo' sa likód kan kaláyo.

Nalingáwan ko, 
iyó palán iní an báyad kan nakipagdigma ako ki Satanas
huríng aldáw, Domínggo, sa iraróm kan higdá'an ko.

Asín sa huríng paghángos kan sakóng plúma,
gústo kóng isúrat an sakóng namamatí'an.
Ta iyó iní an sábi kan mga aniningál 
na padágos na kinákakán an ísip ko.

Iyó man iyán an sábi kan gasera sa gílid ko.

(Holding fire and water together)

I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again,  I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for  the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill  of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow,  that of your father,  mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!

©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations

May mga kurabkutab sa daghan na minaulang sa
Bulos kan daing sagkod na siram. Mayo ining kinaaram sa natural
Na pagruso kan mga kolor sa buhay o pagkamoot.
Saro ining kamawotan kan langkag na kalag na taros ning lugad.

Ngonian liwat minapoon an paghiro kan puso na
Danay nang daing untok.
Liwat na pagkabuhay---liningwan an nakaagi;
Nakahuyom na liwanag sa imaaga na ladawan ning pagmawot;
Sarong hararom na hurop-hurop sa pagsusod kan pagkatawo,
Bako sa tuyong magkaigwa, kundi
Tumang sa kinatudan na paghiling sa
Pagkamoot, ngonian minakmukna nin kinapunan.

Saro sana ang sakuyang nasa isip,
bago magturog asin pagkamata.
Bago magdiklum ang banggi,
asin pagdungaw kan saldang sa amay na aga.
Sa saiyang mata asin ngirit ako nauugma.
Dai ko aram ta pag nahihililing ko sya,
ako garu nasa langit na.
Salamat ta nabisto ko sya,
Salamat ta sa oras na ako namumundo yaon sya.

Basta ang aram ko PADANGAT ko sya.

Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you?
Your body was found puddled,
In blood that oozed out behind your head,
In your car you slept humble as in life,
Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi,
You were smiling in death as you ever did in life
Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed
Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads,

Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful
Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind
You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect,
The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never
Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience,
As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty,
In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible
Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed,
Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home,

Only to work at home with vintage discipline,
Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth,
Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you
With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal
As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if...
Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark
Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and
Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced,

Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you?  was it a man or a woman?
Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso?
Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich?
The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth
You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car,
God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living
For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how,
You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair,
In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos,
Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists,
Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt,
Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town,

Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity
An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven,
An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers,
Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son
They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow,
They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,

Garo pirmi akong hinahapag
Kan hinangos ko
Pag nagdadalagan ako
Pasiring saimo
Dara-dara an balde nin pintura
Asin nag-aasa na mahiling ka
Ano daw kun aram mo man
An sakuyang namamatian
Pag nagrarani ako saimo
Para i-abot ining pinabakal mo
Na pintura na hali pa sa sentro
Ano daw kun padagos ****
Kulayan an buhay ko
Sana dai ka magpundo
Magpabakal sako nin dawa ano

Saro ka sa pinakamatibay na pintor
Kaya **** makagibo nin obra
Sa maski anong kolor
Tinawan **** kulay
An mabublay kong buhay
Iyo garo ito an ráson
kun tàno ika an pinili ko
Maski dakol na tao
An sigeng usióso
Bahala man sinda
sa buhay ninda
Bahala man kita
Basta padangat taka

—𝐔𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐨,  a Bikol poetry.

Bakô **** kasalan
na padángat ka niya
Bigla ka nalang nag-abót
Bigla nalang nagbutwá’
Bigla nalang nagkusóg
An saiyang buot.
Pirmi siyang nawawaran
ning hinangos
Hinahapot an sadíri
kun mapadágos o dai
Bakô **** kasalan
na pinili ka niya
Pirang aldaw niyang pinagisipan
Pirang patak kan urán an nabilang
Sigurado na siya sa saiyang namamatian

Garo úlod
Bigla nalang nag-abót
Bigla nalang nagbutwá
Basta nalang nagkamang sa irárom
Kan saiyang kublít
Pirit niya mang halion
Naging parte na kan hawak
Pirit niya mang halion
Sa saiyang kublít
Dai na niya magibo sa sobrang rárom
Bigla nalang nagbutwá
Bigla nalang nag-abót
Garo úlod
Natuod na gayod
Sa katuninongan na hinatod
Kan saimong pag-abot
Kadakol lugar an gustong istarán
Pero saro lang an nasunoan

Aram mo kun sáin
an pinakatunínong
na saiyang nadumanan?

Duman sa lugár kun sáin
pírme niyang nahihiling
an pagpikít asin pagbuklát
kan saimong mga matá.

—𝐔𝐥𝐨𝐝, a Bikol poetry.
Like a worm, love can be a little terrifying sometimes.

Let the hot sun go.
Let the sweet breeze blow.
Let the big sea grow
As the rivers flow.
And the oboist blow
At dusk, his oboe.
That darkness should grow.

This day is once more sinking
And the night is tired of waiting.
The poor cower in grief.
The rich cackling in relief.
Night, no longer of blackness
But of thick darkness
In which courage is slaughtered
Again and again.
And fear has grown beards
In the hearts of men.

Let the hot sun go
Let the sweet breeze blow
Let the big sea grow
As the rivers flow.
And the oboist blow
At dusk, his oboe
That the night should show.

The cruelty of our green god
Shall be felt one morning at Ogoni.
He will hit you on the brow,
Whether you were guilty or not
Until you are hung on a noose.

t may be at dusk or dawn.
It may be the verdict of a kangaroo court.
But once it’s done,
There will be only tears to show.
Let the dark night go.
Let that old **** crow.
Let the morning flow.
Let the tide go low
As the rivers flow.
That a day should grow
With bright light to show.

A fateful new day
With dews fresh on the leaves.
No one smelt death
Until suddenly we heard him:
“Come out here!
You and your eight brothers
Whose days I have numbered.”

Hence their noose kissed the necks
Of the victims.
Victims of black gold.
And the world was spitting fire
And you groaned away in a deep sleep.
What a noisy way to sleep!