The gust of the dry winds
Sailing lazily like lonely little lakes
Many mutilated heads
Beneath the lifeless leaves
A wail
A sniffle
An elegy, that slithers from the hidden faces
Jaundiced jowls of anger and fear
Frozen smiles
Forgotten rhapsody, embittered symphony
The cold killers in wanderlust of wanton wastage
Of life, limp and land
Their spiky tails are drenched in the blood
Of the children yet unborn
Swashbuckling in their fanatic rivulets
That they proclaim as victory
Their speeches, laced with venom
Their fiery eyes burn the souls of the innocents
Of a lunacy emits the brilliant foolishness
The weeping sun is trapped above
The orgies of bloodlust persists unabated
Ill-intent from shallowed mind turns logic on its head
The flight of the frail and frantic fellows
That run on the roadless terrain to
Dredge comforts from the crude madness
Have found a respite in a new determination
For they dare to dare the despot who decrees
From a formidable forte
He voices the rain, sun, draught and thunder
His ears trained, hearing invisible accolades of paid drummers
To his own music, he is the best dancer
To himself alone he surrenders
To himself alone he answers
Resolute, absolute his trademark
Desolate, the features of his landmark
Praying to the answerless gods
He regale in his on foolishness
The runners are running back
To face the two Janus faced killers
Enough the blood flow
Renewed the will to live.
Long may we live
To coldhearted kill the killer
The dying, dreading death
Scattering into the thickets. Fate’s vengeful hand
Has lampooned a heavy blinding blow
In this grim nightmare of horror show
Men’s shadows evaporating into the hearts of the nights
Leaving in their wake mothers running helter skelter. Gloomy sights
Of the chubby little hands that clutch, cling to fleeing fathers
Lost are many in the fog of the reeling melee
From the blistering foothills to the cold crest of the mountains, fathers
Refuged. These fleeing erstwhile embodiments of strength and valour strive to see
Where the bush paths would take their wives and daughters
Bent heads, crowned in shame and fear, all visages of courage left hanging
By their wives’ windows. Forgotten laughters
Adorned in loincloths, housed in caves, trembling
Sly snakes, hungry hyenas and old owls deign to come out to slay
Helpless, they watch foreign flags hoisted, music from the ricocheting guns play
From the brainless predators who brandish televisioned weaponry
Orgied in a macabre dance, lost in their blood-lusty frenzy
Flags flaying on the fringes of the shattered serenity
Serenity that for many born years reigned supreme
Born now, is a ghost town. Deserted
Withering farmlands, silent dirges for the departed
Hang low from the terrified trees.
A new air of poverty hovering in pomp and pageantry sits atop
A lingering desolation and mutilation that will not stop
The freshly branded face of the old town. The town is on its knees, down
The fleeing scatterlings have abandoned their crown
In a motionless orison the cry out to the hopes hanging on the horizon
Desperate to melt the gods’ heart that appear frozen
Simmering songs, fledgling faith, ephemeral enthusiasm, tormented tomorrows
Marketed to hang around their necks, contemplating their newfound sorrows
Mindless carnage carefully concocted and careened upon their midst
Jolting them into forgotten realization that the dark mist
That descended were the machinations of their revered rulers
Pray, where lie the assurances from the pretentious princes’ hulas
Those sysops sang in garbs of salvation, preening like peacocks
Are they those basking in revelry in palaces placed atop the rocks
Their fitzy filled crystal glasses enchant them as they rave, rant and ramble
In a web of crystalline subterfuge. Tongues talk, stalk like embellished wrinkle
As their aloof airs and flairs of fanfares in flurry of wanton destructions
Arise from their turbaned smugness. Such ruse, such dark deceptions
That extort our trusts, burying distant truths
Broken promises, beguiling tokens, rend the air
By prancing and preening statesmen from their golden-egged lair
Bloodied whispers of despair
Wheel above the hopes of the discouraged
Crying for justice from the souls still sitting in limbo
Still, the statesmen stand arms akimbo
With grave faces that belie their snickering hearts
Though hope torn to shreds
Small gnawing determintioning shards
Converge to sit tight upon the citadel
Of our ravaged villages. New messages we will sell
Renewing the hearts of revolt beneath the fallen wall
Time is stilled, the tinderbox ignited
The ancient spirits are now called, uninvited
The men have salvaged the cusps of their courage
Together we shat fight this scoring scourge

As the rickety tired bus ticketed and ricketted
Finally along the picketed road that
Snaked to my village of dreams
My rear, firm and ready on gear at the rear of the blustering bus
My mind wandered along the long memory lane
Clear memories I hold dear, flashing and flooded back
Like long lost prisoners at the gate of freedom
I recall the long narrow faces of the tombstones
That gardened the welcoming outskirts like sentinels
The expansive grounds, wide and waiting while we worn out the playgrounds
Yes, we play till we worn out the playground
The sea of long, lush grasses habouring the grasshoppers
That once salted and roasted brought rare smiles to our bushed faces
Every hut was garlanded by the green grasses that tickle our bare feet
The nights were bejeweled by the diamond studded-stars above
Twinkling in mischief as we sing our moonlight songs passed
From the generations of old
To behold once again the November hue of the ripened row of golden cornfields
That awaits to impregnate our stoic granaries
My eyes brighten at the thought of the varied evening aromas
That tease our nostrils and tempt our rumbling bellies
The salad of sounds from the ravine, the trees and the huts find a mix with
Mama, as the rising smoke from her heath and papa’s pipes all blend mystery unmatched
The bus lumbered still, down the slope and up the hill
Aching away to drop its heavy loads.
My patience wearing thin, my anticipation swelling and swirling.
For my pockets are lined with the gems of my adventures
Which I yearn to share with my kin and kith
To watch their enraptured faces as I regale them
With the tales of the city of angels lined with gold
Traipsing deeper into my boyhood fantasies
The droopy eyes of my mind fail to register the now lonely road
Devoid of pots balanced on headgeared heads
Or the old farmers’ bicycles slewing towards the village at sunset
To lick the last drops of their hot burkutu
Out of my reverie when the bus halted with a lurch
Pasted on my face were the fierce looking soldiers
Wielding guns and beaming mean streaks
A travesty, a roadblock at the gate of my village?
I shake my head from this dreary dream
Or perhaps I was not dreaming
No, not yet.


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