take your time and tell what time it is,
to the ever wishful watching world cry.
Where do dreams come from to mind?
How do dreams make it way back home?
Who owns the dreams of our neighbors?
History pitches tent on a high mountains,
victory comes and disappear at the speed of wind.
when mother’s breast fall at the young day
we say time was measured in her absence.
When the palm wine drops from the kindred mouth,
another opportunity is giving to the deity to
mingle blood and flesh with the mortals.
Where is the home of the beautiful sun?
Where does the moon perch and stay at noon?
Does the wind rest at all from watery the earth?
Humans are the fragments of the sand and dust!
Africa is my home,  my root yonder of liases,
our history is us in the history of our land,
our thatched roofs are the mainstream of our beliefs.
Look into the cobwebs and gather the string of
another Images spreading love  and lobes
of hypertizing calls of our root in the sky..
we carry our past on our heads to rehearse,
now, the poet see at the mercy of the sun,
the anus of the birds are taps like borehole,
breeding an excellent  muse to the earth.
The goat now reason like humans in Nigeria,
the dogs are now the minister for information,
the hyena handle power and energy in the land,
the lion is a minister for oil and gas,
the parrot,  minister of education;
the masses, ambassadors of poverty and
ministers of hatred and voiceless champions!
They obey every  moves and commands,
they focus on the ease of themselves.
we are really doomed in the society,
Though violated chips we are,  yet,  we kill
with mouth and eyes like the stars f destruction.
Reflect on this and we shall meet at the toll gate
where this madness  was generated.

Related Updates -  The Missing File - Prologue

©John Chizoba Vincent


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