The withering peasants of the rich farm
Bring our shivering grudges to?
We saw with pale eyes
The wrath in the Master’s eyes
When with stony fists
He rendered to wisping dust
All the gasping crops we watered
To which judge shall we flee to
For us to feel the solace of justice?
Our eyes have seen more
Than the eyes can behold;
Terror lies in the eyes of the beholder
This night of a thousand curses
We stare impotently with mud-filled eyes
As the Master strolls near
With the glowing whip of doom in grasp
Passionate to unleash the final stroke
That will reduce us not just to dusts
But will haunt us in our flowerless graves
He is the lord of the farm
We are the peasants
We are the faithful subjects
But tell us O fleeing moon
When did divine head make it legal to die?
He walks nearer
The whip flashes
We gasp
We clutch to a strangled hope in a last prayer;
A prayer from the ram to the Slaughterer;
A prayer of blood,
We have once kissed this terror
Kissing it is no different
From lip-locking a night masquerade
If no court can give us justice
If justice has no court
In this land where the sun is menstruating
Then the whip shall we bow to
For it is now an obligation to die a deathless death
When our cries of agony are no more
When those flames of pain fades with our breathe
We shall in the coming world of snows
Count our tears with fortunate hands.
Written by: Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
