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What home is turning into
is turning grey heads to the ground,
is making trees fall with rodents' songs,
is turning the face to the night's sun.
There is a rumble in town, in your circle,
inside my body. In the other side of the
of the window,
in the yellow Keke mar'wa, hunger
is such a mother:
a father, a passenger howling at the
man steering the journey of life.
A poet sitting by his shadow, his empty
cylinder, nothing to fire his hope tonight.
Mekunu— hunger songbirds making
a nation— a joint
of evening men beheading
the flies on the seats of power.
No sufficient ears to absorb all the cries
of wants falling off city women.
Hoping that someday, the walls
may not be tired and cruel,
may not push the people back
to their government.