ROSE

I have died the death of the living
I have lived the life of the dead
I am Nigeria
bruised and wounded by my sons
littered and squashed by my heros
my face is plastered with wounds
my heart is rendered in pieces
my eyes are clouded with tears, yet none will drop
yet not none will hear my hard screams
my tongue is bitter with hatred
my eyes are blurred by the foggy weather
my veins now flow with vengeance
I am Nigeria
an inglorious murder of Africa
I am the murderland, where the sun rises in my eyes
and sets with teardrops
my lashes are shaved by my Waste-rn jealoused suitors
my paths are fenced with ease-stern shrubs
I dread the dawning of tomorrow, for I can't tell if the sun will rise in my eyes
or if it will set with my running nose
I am Nigeria, mother of the living dead
death has given me some room to dance
now I shall dance
not to the rhythm of the clans drums,
but to the dreadful echoes leading to the dark vault
the vault that dwells at the churchyard
I am Nigeria
the mother of heroes
abandon to roam by my adult children
widowed by my children's design
my pains are as predictable as sun rise
my sorrows as heavy as the cross
my land is now a Golgotha
my field is greened in cold blood
I am Nigeria
the murderland of Africa