The Vanity of War
The shell-shocked earth of the east
The poisoned vegetation of her withered forests
The drippling dusk and the drizzling dawn of her space
The mashy-slushy mire of her deeps
The agony, acrimony, anarchy and anxiety
All of which define her struggle
Today stare us in the face
The legends of her past
The mystery of her survival
The expectations of war
The realities that now are
The relics of a history
A history written in blood
The blood of ignorant men
Unwary and unthoughtful folks
Who fought another’s war
The blood that forms the under pool of a flag that may never fly
The darkness above the bloody pool a second signifying layer
The half of a yellow sun that summarises the vanity of her wars
A sickly yellowness of a half sun towered above her kwashiokor stricken babes
No gods to the rescue, no uniforms or uniformity
Just dead-hungry and dust-clothed emissaries on patrol
The war ends
Lives and homes lost
Th streets naked and barren of activities
Some of her cultures lost to a cold-blooded war
War intensified her woes and mores
A surrender with no respite
A tug of war; the defence of a tribe and the loyalty of a country
And she paid,
She paid a bloody price
And just as the tragic tale goes, there is Biafra No More!?
Hey, you, good stuff. I really like this poem; it's reads almost as though you were there, and saw the stark realities of the times and hopelessness of those who lived through it. Keep it up!
ReplyDeleteThanks Ibuku mi, my most admired editor...lol. Will definitely keep it up.
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