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This Poem is Not an Elegy
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not rest in peace
as we always pray at funerals,
for the wicked
to have the last laugh
but return as heavy as
a raging hurricane storm,
as a haunting nightmare
with indignation and fire
in his belly, for justice!
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not go to sleep
in the cruel matchbox
they hurriedly stuffed him
away like a reproach,
to bury their bad conscience;
when the brood of vultures
bask in the nourishing
warmth of the morning sun;
savour the lastest luxuries
and hit the night-clubs at
weekends, free as a bird ...
but return like an Abiku,
from a place of indignation;
with as many bullets
for each bloody wolf hiding
in plain sight like ghosts
from the slumbering eyes of justice.
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not rest in peace
for the vultures to throw parties
at the expense
of our collective peace,
I am tired of mourning!