Each day passes
With people of class
Mashing those that
Can’t move close to their class
Without obtaining a pass.
Each day is marked
With hues of black.
The street pants;
People become roasted bush rats
On display—arms over their head.
No news is good:
Either of ruse or scarcity of food,
Either of intimidation or of death,
Either of deadly diseases or of debt.
News today makes the soul bland.
Peace has since been hauled into a dungeon:
First, it was pissed then it was hissed at.
Peace like a dew has evaporated from our sight.
Drums of war make hearts thump;
Dusts of disarray are raised in the air.
In this city,
The garrulous have held their peace.
Ekene, the nightingale,
No longer sings amorous songs.
When last did I hear the squeaking of rats?
Leaders of tomorrow
Have lost sight of the future.
He that hasn’t lost sight
Has lost his sight to epidemics
What does the future hold?
Fear grips without being fair:
None can comfort
Between the old and the young.
Elders now watch the crooked
Necks of young ones from afar
With fear shutting their mouth.
Let each thumping
Of every fragile and upright heart
Usher peace out with great lauding.
Let him with a gentle but sonorous voice
Ask peace from the mouth of the dungeon
“Are you still awake?”