The clouds are too busy
weeping to see that we are
soaked to our ragged pants
and our genitals have retracted
into their shells, like irked snails.
Whose lips shall then mouth
the needed protest, being already
busy with mournful mumblings?
Of which shall I tell you,
now that you bother to inquire
about these endless rains;
One threadlike, one windy
One saltened, one like dew…?
Do not let me torment your
eardrums for my words will
itch like grandma’s yam water.
Shall I tell you of the deeds
of my brothers or of theirs sons?
The son is the grandson and
the wife is the daughter too!
The son is the brother, yet
he shall be called the uncle!
The father and the sun itch
same spot, dipped in same pot!
Should I sheath my lips or
you would hear of slaughters
not of goats or bleating rams;
preyed Homo Sapiens, arrowed
barbecued, for no one’s table!
Search among the ashes….
You’ll find unweaned lips
and teats still dripping milk!
More? Would you shudder
if I told of fat vultures waiting
for a skeleton to die…and a man
watches priming shutter and lens?
One morsel, just one morsel
and he could be here reading
these lines that I write under
these rains, from sky and eye!
I will stop. But first I must tell
of women bulleted into widowhood;
their seed and the planter
lost on fields that once held grain
Their harvest is gone, but it is
yet the season of tending!
I’ll speak no more…even if
these rains will not cease!
Written by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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